A Question of Honor
by NuthatchXi
Summary: Detective Tony DiNozzo has a rule—no undercover work. But when a friend is murdered, he can no longer refuse. When Agent Gibbs notices a pattern in a rash of murders, his gut starts both men down a path that will change them forever. Pre-series. Gen.
1. The Strangers That You've Met

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Rated T for violence, mild sexual references, some language, and potential dark themes. NO SLASH.

"_Like the strangers that you've met_

_The ragged man in ragged clothes_

_The silver thorn, a bloody rose_

_Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow_…"

—Starry, Starry Night by Don McLean

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

If there was anything James Bridenn hated, it was murder before breakfast.

Crystalline sunlight streamed through his wide glass windows, illuminating the office with its cheery light. When he'd accepted his promotion to head of Philadelphia PD's Criminal Intelligence department, Bridenn had insisted on this room. His days were often dark ones metaphorically; there was no need for them to be dark in a literal sense. Depression was always a risk in law enforcement, and such simple pleasures—a favorite food, a well-lit office—helped more than most people would ever guess.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the adjacent mirror, Bridenn heaved a sigh, and ran both hands through his lank dark hair. Deep set eyes, unusually shadowed. Pallid skin, pale even after Baltimore's hot summer. No wonder he felt the need for light. He was too vampiric by half already.

Such was the price of obsession.

Bridenn took a huge bite of his donut, savoring the sweetness of his favorite glaze. Cases were never supposed to be personal. But this…

Finished with his makeshift breakfast, James wiped greasy fingers on his napkin. His obsession—Macaluso—hadn't started out as personal. Or rather, it had, but only in the vague way that dealing with the Mafia always was. The way that even pursuing Girelli, the previous and low-profile Mafia boss, had been. But Bridenn defied anyone, following this case as he had, step by step, year after year, to be unaffected by the sheer brutality of Mike Macaluso.

Not that anyone could ever prove that Macaluso was responsible for the rash of increasingly savage killings that had been sweeping through Philadelphia for the last five years. James grimaced, tapping the morning paper with rigid fingers. A whisper, a rumor, a witness (mysteriously refusing to testify by the date of the trial)—these he had in spades. A few low-level informants. Or, like today's newspaper loudly proclaimed, a blood-soaked and mangled body, sprawled in a dark alley where Macaluso's men were known to frequent. But proof? That was something he was desperate for, something he had no real way of obtaining.

The familiar buzz of static that always preceded his receptionist's call drew Bridenn's from his thoughts. After a moment, Linnie's voice crackled over the line. "Sir, Sergeant Watson wishes to speak with you."

Sergeant Tom Watson. Chunky and balding, he looked every inch the mediocre, insignificant cop loved by anti-police dramas. In reality, he was one of Philadelphia's most effective men. "Thank you, Linnie. Send him in."

After a moment, the reinforced office door squeaked open, revealing Watson's rumpled figure. "Good morning, sir."

He sounded—cheerful. Almost ebullient, in fact. James scrutinized him in mild dismay. Even ignoring the grisly murder that Philly Metro detectives had been working all night to investigate, it was rare for Watson to display anything but intense focus. The occasional smirk, perhaps—but actual cheer? It was unnerving. After all these years of training and recruiting officers and detectives for undercover work, had the man finally cracked?

"Morning, Tom," Bridenn answered, unable to keep an uneasy note out of his voice. He really hoped the man had merely had a rollicking good time with his wife last night—though _that_ was an image disturbing enough to make him wish he hadn't thought of it—or won the lottery, or discovered a source for latex gloves that would save Philadelphia PD thousands of dollars in needless rips. He couldn't afford to lose the valuable members of his department to such an unexpected foe as insanity. "How can I help you?"

"It's more how I can help _you_, sir." There was no doubt about it. Watson was practically bursting with excitement. Bizarre. "I received a request from one of our homicide detectives for an undercover assignment."

In general, something to be pleased about. But hardly life-altering enough to make Tom act like a girl on the night before prom. "Who?" Bridenn asked, curious.

When Watson answered, it was with the air of one unveiling a priceless gift. "Officer Anthony DiNozzo."

"DiNozzo?" The name was familiar, but it took Bridenn a moment to place it. After a moment, a hazy image of a young man with a wicked grin swam to mind. "Peoria transfer. Homicide division. I remember." Motioning for Tom to take a seat, James nodded to indicate he should go on.

He sat, but leaned forward towards me with an intensity that was every bit as characteristic as his excitement wasn't. "He's good, James. As an investigator, the kid's on fire. But as an undercover operative—I've wanted him ever since I did an interview with him when he first transferred from Peoria PD. I heard a few things about ops he did back there. He's only twenty-seven, but the kid's _made_ for undercover work." Watson frowned, the expression pulling wrinkles across his florid brow. Bridenn eyed him curiously, but no explanation was forthcoming; after a moment, the other man shook it off. "Now he's offered. James, I swear, DiNozzo's got it all. Never seen anything like it."

"That's good to hear," Bridenn said slowly. "You have an assignment in mind?"

"He asked about Macaluso."

He'd been half expecting it, really. All the same, James found himself on his feet, flooded with adrenaline. He strode quickly over to the window, just for something to do.

"You think he can do it?" The words came out fast—almost too fast. His tongue didn't seem to be working right.

There was a smirk contained in his friend's response. "Oh, he can do it. If anyone can do it, it's DiNozzo. Speaks three languages, one of which is Italian. The kid _is_ Italian. Doesn't give off a cop vibe at all. He's got enough cojones to take on the Chinese Army, but enough savvy to temper it. Born chameleon, too. He's perfect for Operation Hawkeye. Don't know about God, but somebody up there must like you, James. It's Christmas come early. All wrapped up in a shiny bow."

Elation was rising like a tidal wave, but Bridenn forced himself to ask. "Too shiny?"

A cryptic question at best. But Watson knew him well enough to guess at the meaning. "He won't turn, and he won't crack under the pressure, if that's what you mean, sir. DiNozzo's shiftless in his personal life, but when it comes to law enforcement, he's got an iron will."

Tom slapped a folder down on his superior's wide desk. "Take a look at it, James," he urged. "See what you think."

The soft sound of a door pulling shut signaled Watson's departure, but Bridenn still stood frozen by the window, his eyes unseeing as they tracked the movement of the cars below.

He would look at the folder, because it would be negligent to do otherwise. He'd try to remain impartial as he scanned through performance evaluations. He'd sift through recommendations and stories of bravery without allowing himself to be stirred by them. And mostly, he would try to forget how very young DiNozzo still was, because Bridenn already knew that the answer was yes.

God help him if he sent the kid to his death.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Shooting had always been cathartic.

Widening his stance, Tony DiNozzo took aim. _Crack._ The bullet ripped into his target's chest. Barely pausing to aim, Tony released again. One. Two. Three. Four. With each shot, he could feel himself relaxing further. Patterns. The steady rhythm of _aim-fire-aim. _They were more soothing than they ought to be, for a Detective who had seen precisely how much damage such a missile could inflict. But to Tony, guns meant safety as well as danger. A gun in the hands of a criminal meant death or coercion. A gun in the hands of someone else—a cop, a woman facing an assailant twice her size—could avert a crisis, or save a life.

At the moment, he'd rather see a thousand bullets than another knife wound. Tony's hand trembled just slightly as he pulled the trigger, but it was enough. The shot went wide, scoring the target's shoulder instead of its chest. Memories drifted before his eyes, crystal in their clarity, and for a moment the stench of blood and death filled his nostrils.

_Get a hold of yourself, Anthony._

Thrusting further images of the morning's mutilated victim far from his mind, he fired in rapid succession. It shouldn't bother him so much. God knew he'd seen enough bloodshed since he first became a cop in Peoria. But even the sour-faced medical examiner Aaron had seemed queasy when examining Julia Municello's body. And he'd never seen her alive.

Tony had. God, she'd been a rough-edged thing, with overly tanned skin and a cigarette-hoarse voice, spewing obscenities like Tony spewed innuendos. A Mafia girl turned informant. They'd booked her two weeks ago, with the excuse of drug dealing charges—manufactured for convenience, but probably true. She'd been clean, though, and when—for reasons that he hadn't understood at the time—Tony had been assigned to hear her report, Julia had been delighted. She'd been looking forward to running roughshod over the young officer, no doubt, plying her sharp tongue and making him blush. In truth, if any young woman could have made him stumble, it was this one.

But there wasn't a woman alive who could intimidate Anthony DiNozzo.

The phrasing made him wince. Lowering his gun, he left the training grounds, ignoring the shouted phrase that followed him out. He didn't know what the officer had said, but he didn't have to; there would have been nothing complimentary about it. Unlike in Peoria, he'd never been popular here. Philly cops weren't looking for hotshot young investigators to tell them how to do their jobs—even when the suggestion was a polite one. And he _had_ been polite, Tony assured himself virtuously. At first. If after the first few months (weeks) he'd been frustrated by their minimal (complete lack) of receptivity—well, he'd never been good at keeping his mouth shut.

Julia had been like him, that way. They'd sniped and flirted their way through the interview, staying just barely within the bounds of propriety. He'd enjoyed the game, and so had she, but when she turned to go there was something more in her eyes than lust and anger. Something that had made him both relieved and oddly sorry that there was no way they could ever get involved without ruining them both.

It added an extra twist to the bitterness. Tony closed his eyes, just for a moment, as he made his way into the parking lot, fighting off a wave of something that might have been grief. Vacant hazel eyes stared back at him from her pristine face—the only part of her not slashed, lacerated or covered in bruises. _Or broken, DiNozzo, _his mind taunted. _Her pretty legs, snapped like twigs. Bone poking through her fragile copper skin…every finger shattered, one…by…one…by…one…_

They'd wanted her identified. A message. She'd been made, no doubt. It was like all the rest of the Macaluso killings since he'd come to Philadelphia. The head, the face—untouched. The rest…not so much. Tony would know. Somehow, his team always was assigned the suspected Mafia cases.

The first case, he'd thought nothing of it. The second, he'd put down to coincidence. The third sent suspicion crawling through him; the fourth brought certainty. By the fifth, his partner was openly glaring at him, and he was wondering why he'd even bothered leaving Peoria in the first place.

But DiNozzos couldn't be out-stubborned. That was one of his father's rules, though an unspoken one—and one of the few rules Tony had actually managed to follow. So he'd gritted his teeth—taking solace in the fact that even gritted his teeth were still the nicest in the entire police force—and put his foot down. And hung on for dear life as brutal murder after brutal murder came down the pipeline.

After a while, as their closure rate went from the highest on the task force to the lowest, his partner—once a friend—stopped glaring. And started ignoring, instead. Which hurt more than Tony would ever admit.

He'd had enough of being ignored in his life.

In retaliation, he'd set his DiNozzometer from Mildly-Annoying-But-Charming (the default setting) all the way up to Impossibly-Irritating. (Tony stopped just short of Apoplexy-Inducing-Infuriating, because, frankly, he couldn't afford to get fired right now.)

Six official reprimands later, his partner had indeed stopped ignoring him.

The bodies, however, had kept coming. Combined with the now hellish situation that was his work environment, it was almost enough to make Tony give in. But no one, not even Sergeant Watson pulling strings, was going to force him into this.

Not after Peoria. Not after he'd seen how long-term undercover jobs could destroy someone. Not after Alicia.

But he'd be damned if he thought of that now. He was stronger than her, more experienced, with a whole hell of a lot less to lose. So what if he'd finally given in. He'd be alright.

He'd have to be.

Tugging on the door handle of his car, Tony sighed. He'd forgotten his keys. Or his partner, Keyes, had stolen them again. For an old fogy, he fought pretty dirty. Tony smacked the car in frustration. On a different day, he might feel obligated to give Keyes a little credit—for sheer obnoxiousness, if not for originality. But tonight? All he wanted was a shower, long and hot enough to forget that once Julia's skin had smelled like smoke and cinnamon instead of sweat and gore.

He really needed to have an extra set of keys made. Then he could just tell Keyes to keep the keys—appropriate, really. Perhaps, if he was itching for another reprimand, Tony could even tell him precisely where he could keep them. The idea was more tempting than it ought to be. Because, God he missed having a partner who actually gave a flying fig whether he made it home all right. Alicia would have driven him home, and found an excuse to hover until she was sure he wouldn't drink himself into a stupor.

"Hey, DiNozzo!"

Flinching violently, Tony whipped around, hand automatically brushing his gun. His green eyes met familiarly wry brown ones, and instantly he deflated. Running wobbly fingers through his perfectly arranged hair, Tony attempted a smile. For him, it was an utter failure. "Steve," he acknowledged.

"Gonna shoot me?" The words were teasing, but the expression on the burly man's face was concerned. "Getting jumpy. Were you this jumpy when you came here, because I gotta say, you seem like you're getting worse the longer you're in Philly."

"Trying to haze me?" Tony's voice was dry. It was hard not to like Steve. "Three people today have suggested I should go back to Peoria. Trying to join the ranks?"

"Yeah, like they need my help." Steve came to stand next to him, crossing his arms. At six foot six, he towered over the entire police force. "'Misplaced' your keys again, DiNozzo?"

"Must've dropped them by mistake," Tony said glibly. His grin was disarming, but he knew Steve would catch the ironic gleam in his eyes. "You know how it is. Can't help fiddling with my valuables over grates. Dangdest thing—"

"Oh, cut the crap," the other officer grumbled. "Like I don't know your partner's been taking them. I just don't know if he's doing it because he knows how much you love your car, or if he thinks the pun is funny. Gotta lame sense of humor, that one."

Since Tony had in fact thought the pun, at least, was funny, he wasn't sure how best to respond. Steve decided for him by continuing. "Why don't you complain?" He demanded, steering his friend away from the car with a forceful arm. Tony cast his Mustang a wistful look, but didn't resist. Fighting against the force of nature that was Steve Kraut, he had learned, was an exercise in futility.

"Good idea," Tony answered promptly. "I made a sandwich for lunch, but the bread was stale and the meat was kind of funny tasting. My favorite shampoo has been discontinued, and I've got to say, even hair this nice needs to be given its proper treatment. There was a cute blonde on the street today, with the shortest little skirt you ever saw, but I didn't get to flirt with her—"

As predicted, this litany had Steve rolling his eyes. "About Keyes, you moron."

"Oh, _Keyes_," Tony responded, face lighting up, as though the connection had only just occurred to him. "Well, that's a funny thing. I'm glad you asked that. You've reminded me of a question I had for you—"

"I don't know why I even bother," his friend sighed, pressing the unlock button on his own set of keys. His car's headlights flashed from across the parking lot. "Come on, Tony, I'm worried about you. Someday this hazing is going to turn into more than just hazing, and you know it."

"No, it won't," Tony disagreed, feeling more exhausted than he had in long time. "Steve. Not tonight."

Steve looked more than ready to argue, but something in Tony's face must have told what Tony couldn't bring himself to. Scowling, Steve shoved the smaller man towards the passenger door of his own car.

Tony sank in gratefully, closing his eyes as the car started. It felt so good to lie here, for once near someone he trusted. The car was musty, but it was a comforting scent. It lulled him, much like the thrumming of the engine.

It was a long time before Steve broke the silence. "Tony, are you sleeping?"

No, because sleep would mean oblivion—at least for a little while—and he was still thinking thoughts about Julia's death that he _never_ wanted to think, ever again. But it was a whole lot easier to pretend he was asleep than to pull up his barriers against the older man again, so he said nothing.

A long and gusty sigh issued from Steve's corner. "You probably need it."

Silence stretched. Tony focused on keeping his breathing even, and tried to steel himself against the sympathy. If he came apart now…

He'd never be able to pull himself back together.

When Steve's voice came again, it was in tones so low Tony had to strain to hear it. "I don't know if you're really sleeping. I never have been able to tell with you. But I wanna say one thing, because this is probably the only time you'll shut up enough for me to get a word in edgewise. You're a good man. I can see that, even though you don't want me to. I don't know why you keep everyone at arm's length—though Philly can't have helped you with that—and it doesn't matter. But someday, Tony…someday you're going to meet a friend you can't run circles around. And they're going to see through that smoke screen of yours, to the man inside. I hope they can do a better job at helping you heal than I can, 'cause even I can see that you need it." The clicking of a turn signal interrupted his words. "God, you've got a lot of scars, kid."

Tony lay there, feeling like he'd been turned to stone, and wished with all his heart that his screw-ups weren't so very obvious. That he was as good of a man as Steve seemed to think he was. And mostly, that he had not been so stubborn, so selfish, so _weak_ about refusing to help take down Macaluso that it had taken the death of a bright young woman to convince him to act.

Julia's cold, still face overlaid with Alicia's blood spattered one in his mind, and Tony wondered if it was possible to drown in regrets.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter Notes: I know the show says Mancuso was a Mafia boss Tony took down in Baltimore. It does not, however, say that Mancuso was from Baltimore. Just trust me one this one—I need it this was for future plotlines, but it will be as technically canonical as possible! Also, I mean no offense to the hardworking cops of Philadelphia PD.

This is my first NCIS story—I'd love to hear what you think. Thoughts? Criticisms? Compliments? Bring 'em on. :)


	2. Thoughts They Cannot Defend

Chapter warnings: T for a potentially disturbing violent sequence (and a mother load of flirting.) No gore, I promise.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"_Gazing at people, some hand in hand, _

_Just what I'm going through, they can't understand_

_Some try to tell me thoughts they cannot defend_

_Just what you want to be, you'll be in the end…_"

—_Nights in White Satin _by The Moody Blues

_~*~*~*~*~*~*~_

_**A month later. **_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There were advantages to cover IDs that came with a girlfriend.

Tony pressed the woman back against the couch, feeling the relentless beat of the music vibrating through his bones, and recaptured her lips with his. Running his hands through her silky black hair, he noted that she was kissing back rather more eagerly than the role required. It was enormously tempting to let his hands wander, but sheer force of will kept him still.

Clarity of focus was essential. This was the most crucial stage of the operation, and Tony couldn't afford to be distracted. Even when his distraction was big-eyed and well-endowed, and trembling with just enough nervousness to make him feel protective in spite of himself.

Not that Tony wasn't nervous. It was part of the reason he was allowing himself the pleasure of kissing her. So long as he kept his thoughts focused on sex, it was impossible to be overwhelmed by the stakes.

And did she ever have nice lips.

But he was getting carried away. Panting, Tony pulled back, and grinned crookedly at his ticket into the world of organized crime. Maria Donatti of the impossibly long lashes smiled back so slyly that he really, really wished that they were back in her apartment instead of in a crowded nightclub. Thoughts racing as he imagined how that pleasant but implausible scenario might pan out, Tony wrapped an arm around her frail shoulders.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. Tony took the opportunity to scan through the crowd for any sign of Macaluso or his closest henchmen. Nothing. Plenty of shady faces, of course, many of which he recognized from their suspected Mafia lists; and a great many women squeezed into brightly colored dresses, but no sign of Macaluso at his favorite hangout. A passing waitress with a platter of hot pink cocktail drinks—and _very_ long legs—winked at him as she passed. Tony grinned back appreciatively, and was startled by a sudden sharp pinch.

Maria pouted up at him with red-lipstick smeared lips, looking just a little bit miffed. Tony bit back a surprised laugh. So even fake girlfriends, who knew perfectly well that there was no way you could actually sleep with them, didn't like having your attention divided? Well, never let it be said that Anthony DiNozzo would deny a woman's needs. The detective leaned towards her, leering appreciatively at her low-cut blouse, and kissed her. Hard.

Pulling away slightly, he placed his lips by her ear. "What a fiery _Italiana_," Tony breathed, voice husky. "Too bad we're breaking up."

She chuckled, a throaty sound. "We can always make up, Antonio. And you know what comes after that."

The suggestion was clear, but for once Tony didn't bite. There was no way he could get involved with this woman, any more than he could have gotten involved with Julia. Not only would it be unwise, it also didn't fit in the least with the operation. Their "relationship" was a ploy—and a ploy only. As the sister of a trusted (and now deceased) mafia member, Maria had every reason to bring her new Italian boyfriend to Macaluso's hangout. But she was taking a substantial risk. Passing information was dangerous enough. Deliberately installing a mole into Macaluso's organization…

Tony was in no doubt of what would come to pass if her betrayal was discovered now. He would not be responsible for that. Instead, once the organization had been convinced of AntonioFlorentino's loyalty, he and Maria would have a "falling out," leaving the window open for Tony to obtain a new girlfriend—a cop this time. It was a traditional strategy, but not so common that Macaluso should be overly suspicious.

"Should,"of course, made a tenuous basis for safety.

"Maria, _Bella_," a warm male voice remarked from his left, "You are always a sight for sore eyes."

Maria tensed every so slightly, and Tony felt a tidal wave of adrenaline crash over him. Then the woman pulled to her feet, smiling, every sign of nervousness wiped from her face. "_Buona sera_," she replied, pleasure clear in her soft voice. "How are you?"

And Tony looked into the eyes of Mike Macaluso.

The man smiled, planting a chaste kiss on Maria's cheek. He was handsome in classically Italian way, with swarthy skin, dark eyes and a smile that looked like it could be as predatory as Tony's. But there was a hard edge to him entirely incongruent with his current genial expression. Tony regarded him warily, and tried not to be jealous of the man's designer suit.

"I am very good indeed, _Topolina_. Better now that I have seen you in your sexy heels. Gucci?" Macaluso gave her an up-and-down look that to Tony's sharp eye seemed almost cursory, and smirked when she planted her hands on her hips. The conflicting messages in the interchange might have confused Tony, if he hadn't known the two were cousins.

"Mike, no flirting," Maria scolded, lips twitching. "You would say such a thing in front of my _ragazzo_?"

She was good. Almost too good for comfort, which wasn't really what he'd been expecting, though maybe it should have been. If she decided to turn back to Macaluso's side, Tony wouldn't be able to tell until it was far too late. He could only pray that her motives were sincere.

Recalling her convulsively trembling body as it pressed against his, he was inclined to think they might be.

Macaluso swiveled towards Tony, slightly scraggly eyebrows rising in what appeared to be casual surprise. The detective couldn't help but be impressed at the dissembling—no one reached that level in the Mafia by being unobservant. That Macaluso was able to convincingly pretend to be told volumes.

A dangerous man.

"So this is the New Yorker who has captured the lovely Maria's interest," Macaluso said, extending a hand. "Antonio Florentino. I have heard a lot about you."

Tony took it. The hand was cool, dry and as smooth as a lady's. Tony memorized the feel of it without even meaning to. Had these pampered fingers, so clearly unused to labor, held the knife that ended Julia's life?

Tony grinned, darting an impish glance at Maria. "Reeeeallly, Ria?" Turning back to Macaluso, his expression eased from flirtatious to friendly. "My uncle speaks of you very highly."

"I always had the impression he thought me, what is the word, a reprobate?" Macaluso commented, mouth quirking wryly. His eyes gave none of his feelings away.

Tony laughed. His mind was racing. Had their intelligence been wrong? "An effective reprobate."

Suddenly, a hand clapped on his shoulder. Macaluso was grinning himself, now. "True, my friend. And that is the best way to be, yes? Come." And Macaluso was steering him away from Maria, who was smiling in a way that made him think their intelligence _hadn't_ been wrong. "You must lend me your boyfriend for a while, Maria. I want to learn about the man who is dating my cousin."

"Be nice, Mike," The lady in question called out, voice amused, and blew an airy kiss to Tony. "I might even keep this one!"

The crowds parted easily as they made their way to the back of the club. Clearly, no one here was under any illusions as to the importance of this man. Uneasy, Tony tried to read their expressions. Some gazed at him in frank curiosity. Others' eyes skittered away as though they didn't want to be seen taking notice.

He wasn't sure how to read that.

"Where are we going?" Tony tried, keeping his face casual and unconcerned. The hand on his shoulder patted once. Twice.

"To a place where we can talk, away from snoopy people," Macaluso said easily, leading him towards a small exterior door. "Yes. Here we are." Extending his hand, Macaluso grabbed the handle, and pulled. A rush of cool autumn air swept inside, and Tony caught a glimpse of an almost pitch black ally before he was ushered into it.

Stomach churning, he turned towards Macaluso. The door slammed shut, plunging them into darkness. Vision still dazzled by the flashy lights of the club, Tony could see nothing. But he could sense movement around him, far too close for comfort.

"This your conference room?" Tony began, refusing to let himself step backwards. "Gotta say, I liked the club better—"

An arm wrapped around his throat. Something sharp pricked his jaw line.

Tony froze.

"Don't move," A new voice rasped, the breath hot on his ear. Tony didn't really think he needed the warning. Alone, without backup, and unarmed aside from wholly inaccessible knife tucked into his shoe, he'd never felt less like moving in his life. Harder to resist was the temptation to mouth off, with every nerve screaming at him that he was helpless, powerless…

"There is no need to be nervous, Antonio," Marcuso's smooth voice announced from a few feet away. A sudden flare of light illuminated the alleyway—a cigarette lighter. The flame cast his face into sharp relief as he lit a cigarette and stepped forward.

"Oh, well, that's all better then," Tony commented, as boldly jovial as the scrape of the blade against his neck allowed. "I mean, I was really worried there for a moment. But _now_—"

The knife pricked more sharply. Tony fell silent, unimpressed. That his captor had taken so long to recognize the sarcasm in his tone didn't speak well of the man's intelligence. It was so very cliché—the dramatic lighting of the cigarette, the dumb-as-a-post henchman—that Tony found himself almost disappointed. He could think of a half dozen movies which had utilized a scene not unlike this. The least the mafia boss could have done was come up with something that Tony hadn't already experienced on film.

Of course, Tony had seen a great many movies.

Macaluso was smiling, an unnervingly amused expression. "A clever tongue, Florentino. Not unlike your uncle. But truly, I mean you no harm. It is simply that I am not…convinced…that you wish me the same in return." Shrugging, the man took a drag of his cigarette. "I am sure you understand. It is a difficult world, Antonio—no. Tony. Not Antonio." Macaluso moved closer, shaking his head. "The name does not suit you. My grandfather was named Antonio. He was an insufferable old bore. You are, like me, a reprobate." White teeth flashed in the darkness. "A rascal."

"Ah, you've been reading up on me," Tony managed to grit out through the pressure on his throat. "Did you hear about the drinking game I invented? You start with some good Italian wine—"

A laugh, full-throated one. "Yes. Most inventive, Tony. I will have to try it. But I imagine you begin to see my dilemma. When someone is so very clearly a scoundrel, it is hard to imagine them doing anything for purely altruistic means. And why would a successful man," Macaluso loomed even closer, cigarette glowing red in the dark, "Drop his entire life for a girl he has known barely a month?"

"Well, Maria's a wonderful woman," Tony said firmly. Macaluso's eyes flashed.

"Not a good enough answer, my friend."

The mafia boss lifted his hand, and Tony recognized what was coming, but it was too late to react, impossible to flinch away, and the cigarette butt seared into the sensitive flesh above his collarbone.

White hot pain shot through his body. A meaty hand clapped over his mouth, muffling his yell. Tony kicked backwards, struggling, but the man behind him held him in a viselike grip.

Then it was over. The detective swallowed hard, trying to gain control, feeling nausea rise in the back of his throat. God. He'd forgotten what that felt like.

Macaluso reached out again. Instinctively Tony recoiled, but the other man merely laid a hand against his captive's soft cheek. "Easy, Tony," the mob boss murmured. "Easy."

There was a long silence. The burn throbbed, stinging viciously.

"For what it is worth, I am sorry. You are what—twenty seven? Very young. Very foolish, and so, I will help you. I understand your reluctance to seem forward, but that would have been a very good time to mention that you also wish for a place in my organization. Ah, you see. Maria has already told me. It comes down to complete honesty. A very important thing in this life of ours, as I have no doubt your uncle has explained to you. But sometimes lessons have trouble sticking."

Macaluso ran a gentle hand through Tony's hair, ruffling it almost affectionately. "We won't have to repeat this lesson, I hope."

He stepped away, dropping the arm. "Not that I disagree with your statement, you understand." Suddenly there was humor in Macaluso's voice. "My little Maria is a most excellent woman. I very much hope you are sincere in your motivations towards her. Not only would I be angry that you had broken my favorite cousin's heart, but it would also force me to reconsider your motivations for coming to Philadelphia." His voice dropped, softening. "And we don't want that, do we, Tony?

"So the question becomes, how much do you want in? I take care of my own, Florentino. If I find you trustworthy, there is a great deal to be gained for working with me. Wealth….security…" Again his tone gentled. "…a family. But as in families, sometimes you must suffer for those who care for you. As they will suffer for you if there is ever need. Are you willing to suffer for us?"

And Tony knew, this time, the answer that was expected from him. "Yes."

_For your victims._

"Good."

The pain came swiftly, an agonizing burn against the underside of his wrist. He could hear the skin sizzling, but this time Tony bit his lip, and not a sound escaped. When it stopped, his captor released the pressure on his neck, and stepped away.

"A brave man." Macaluso dropped the cigarette, grinding into the dusty ground with his toe. "Strong. I like you, Tony." His smile was odd, a mixture of pride and something harder to pin down. "Go home, clean up. Let Maria fawn over you, she likes that. I'll make contact. Get some rest, Florentino."

Macaluso vanished through the door of the club. His henchman followed like a shadow, silent and inscrutable.

And Tony was left alone. Stumbling, the detective made it to the wall just before the shakes hit. As he waited for his body's reaction to the adrenaline to subside, his thoughts churned darkly—_was this what Alicia had gone through, day after day? Month after month? _Straightening, Tony became aware of a source of discomfort apart from his burns—small in comparison, but unexpected. He touched his thumb to his mouth, and encountered wetness. Blood.

He'd nearly bitten through his lip.

Carefully, Tony sucked the liquid off his finger, burying a sensation of horror and disgust. _For the victims_, he reminded himself dully, pushing off the wall.

For Julia.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Tony twisted the key in the lock, hearing tumblers shift and fall into place. His fingers still trembled with aftershock; he pulled the key loose, only to promptly dump it on the carpet below.

Cursing softly, Tony bent to grab it, before tucking it back within his designer leather wallet. His _real_ wallet, all smooth and well-creased and familiar, though of course emptied of anything remotely connected to Anthony DiNozzo. The detective caressed it, smiling—he'd always loved that wallet—before squaring his shoulders.

Room 216. His home until…well. Until he found evidence that could take down Macaluso. Or, of course, until his cover was blown and he ended up somewhere with his chest and legs cut to ribbons. Whichever came first, Tony supposed wryly, drawing on a humor so dark that it neared pitch black. _Just as long as you give it a gaming try, DiNozzo._

Tony pushed the door open quietly, wondering what he would find inside. Darkness, probably. No doubt Maria had beaten him home, but by now she'd probably feasted on last night's leftover Chinese Takeout and stumbled into bed—

Or not.

Tony stopped short, green eyes widening. Soft music filtered through the apartment, a jazzy tune he recognized as Sinatra. Bright light issued from the kitchen; the dining area was haloed with a soft glow he suspected was candlelight. A delicious scent floated to his nose—something cheesy and slightly sharp. His mouth watered.

The detective adjusted his rumpled dress shirt the best he could without brushing the circular burn on his lower arm, and sauntered into the kitchen.

Maria stood leaned over in front of the oven, dressed surprisingly casually in worn jeans and a hot pink polo shirt. An apron and hot mitts protected her hands and clothes from food splatter and heat as she reached into the oven, removing something hot and bubbling.

Tony waited in silence, not wanting to startle her. Plus, he was enjoying the view. The tight jeans suited her curvy build perfectly, as far as he was concerned. _Rrrhow. _

Sighing, the woman placed the dish on the counter, and removed her hot mitts.

"You look cute in an apron," Tony said, grinning when she jumped. "But that one clashes with your shirt."

Maria stuck her tongue out, a response so delightfully immature that Tony fought down a laugh. She _was_ fun to tease. He'd seen glimpses of that over the last month, as they consulted over how best to set up Operation Hawkeye, but he'd never actually seen her completely relaxed. It seemed he was seeing it now.

"Then buy me a better apron, Antonio," she retorted mildly, reaching behind herself to untie the strings. "And if it says anything lewd, I'll make you wear it."

"Ha ha," Tony said forcefully. "Very funny. Does _kiss the cook _count?"

Maria darted a sidelong look at him. "Well, that depends on who's doing the kissing."

Well, indeed. Tony's grin widened into something far more predatory. The motion pulled on his cut lip. Wincing, he let his smile drop. "Ria—"

"Your lip." Maria's demeanor changed abruptly, from coquettish to grim in an instant. She shoved her apron onto the counter and came to stand in front of him, taking in the puckered burn mark on his neck with bleak eyes. "So cruel," she whispered.

"Maria," Tony warned softly, eyes flicking around the room—_are we under surveillance?_

She shook her head. "Not tonight. Tomorrow?" Maria shrugged, leaning one-armed against the counter. "Probably. But not yet. Tony, I have some medical supplies. Antiseptic. Burn cream. Come on."

For some reason he didn't quite understand, Tony found himself resisting. "I can do it myself," he argued, setting his jaw. "It's just a burn." Though _just_ felt an improper modifier, with pain radiating relentlessly from the spots.

"I know," came her simple reply, leaving him oddly defeated. "But I would like to help you. Won't you let me, Tony?"

That was fighting dirty. With her kind gaze locked on his, Tony found himself incapable of saying no. He told himself it was because she was a woman; inwardly, he knew it was something far more fundamental. A weakness he'd always had.

He followed her into the bathroom, scowling slightly. Tony gazed longingly at the bathtub—a long hot soak was sounding more appealing by the minute—but Maria was right, on one count at least. Untreated, burns could be nasty. Worse—to his vanity, at any rate—they could scar.

The last thing he wanted was a lifelong reminder of Antonio Florentino.

In the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom, Maria looked pale and washed out. Tony caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as she rooted through the medicine cabinet, and grimaced. If Maria with her stronger coloring appeared washed out, then _he_ was positively ghoulish. A dark trickle oozed down his chin, adding to the unpleasant image.

Not quite the Italian Stallion of lore.

"It would be easier if you took off your shirt," Maria said unexpectedly, her voice extremely serious. Startled, Tony jerked to look at her, but her face was turned away.

"The burns aren't on my chest," he returned, confused.

"Mmmmm." Through her curtain of dark hair, Tony still couldn't read Maria's expression, but something in the throatiness of her tone made him suspicious. It was almost…a purr?

"Minx," Tony growled playfully, catching on. Feeling rather better about the whole situation—though quite aware he'd just been manipulated into a better mood—he sank down on the side of the tub. And realized that, in fact, if he wanted to clean the higher burn properly, taking off his shirt _would_ be the best way to go. Resigned, he tugged loose the buttons and wadded the fabric into a ball, dumping it next to the tub.

Maria turned around, a tiny smile hovering on her lips. Catching sight of him, she blinked, her eyes widening. Suddenly she giggled, sounding more like a schoolgirl than a twenty-eight-year-old woman partially responsible for infiltrating the Italian Mafia. Cheeks faintly flushed, Maria placed the bottles in her hand back on the sink. "I'll be right back," she murmured, and vanished into the hallway.

Grinning rather gingerly, Tony turned on the faucet. The water flowed into the tub, coldness rising off it in waves. Shivering, he splashed both burns with the water, clenching his teeth at the discomfort. He tried not to look as he cleaned them, his stomach turning at the sight of the scorched and weeping marks.

"I put a cover over the casserole," Maria announced, reentering the room. This time, she sounded perfectly normal.

But her dark eyes were still dancing.

"It should stay warm until we're ready to eat," she continued, swinging into place next to him on the tub, a jar of burn salve in hand. The musky scent of her perfume floated up to tickle his nose as she scooped a dollop of cream onto her fingers.

Tony sucked in his breath as she began applying it, though her touch was gentle. All the same, he found himself relaxing under her ministrations, the tension slowly ebbing out of him. It was new to him, this touching without an immediate sexual purpose. Almost…uncomfortable. Disconcerting, for certain. Tony fidgeted, twisting his torso away as she worked.

"There you go." To his intense relief, Maria's voice was brisk. "Now, here's some antiseptic. This may sting."

"I know that," Tony grumbled, snatching the cloth she handed him with a muttered thanks, and pressing it to his lip. It smarted sharply, making his eyes water even as he patted the area dry. But at least this way the area wouldn't become infected.

Taking a deep breath, Tony forced himself to relax, and smiled at his helper crookedly. "How about that dinner of yours?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_Chapter notes: Just in case anyone's wondering, this is not a romance story. It certainly contains a certain romantic element (of a sort, as you will see), but it's definitely not the main thrust of the story. I like Tony and Gibbs father/son too much (Gibbs is currently scheduled to appear in chapter 4, by the way.) Besides, I'm an action chick at heart._

_And in response to the response to my first chapter (a beautifully structured sentence, that): Wow! Thank you all so very much for reading, and evidently enjoying. For those who reviewed/messaged whom I haven't responded to, I'm sorry. I'll try to respond personally, but I only have about twenty minutes this morning to be online. In balance, I thought you'd all probably rather have another chapter. Also, thanks to the anonymous reviewers—I can't reply to you, but your words are also greatly appreciated. Enjoy, everyone!_


	3. Roll in Like Thunder

"_Sometimes I wonder where you're coming from,_

_When you roll in like thunder, just to turn around and run_…"

—_It Doesn't Have To Be This Way_ by Alison Krauss and Union Station

~*~*~*~*~*~

Hollow eyed, Tony stirred his coffee with a listless finger. Lukewarm. He _hated_ lukewarm coffee, with a level of disdain he usually reserved for people who had never watched Magnum. What was worse, Maria either didn't stock or was out of cream, and sugar only went so far to sweeten the stuff.

Tony regarded his drink morosely. Maybe he should buy the woman a new coffee maker, one that actually heated fully. Wasn't that the whole point of a coffee maker? He wasn't sure. Usually, he made a point to avoid the drink. Most mornings he was too hyper by half even without it. Certainly his partners—both Alicia and Keyes—had thought so. Of course, they assumed his energy came from either an undisturbed night sleep or the afterglow of the previous night's romantic pursuits. Neither had ever suspected that he was merely running on fumes, a struggle to pretend that his world was without shadows.

Sometimes, he wondered if there had really ever been any light.

But that wasn't true at all, really. He'd had his happy times. Young childhood, before his mother's long illness and its aftermath put an end to innocence. College, for certain. His deeply satisfying first year at Peoria—before everything went all to hell.

And there lay the problem, in its essence.

None of it ever lasted.

Sighing, Tony scrubbed at his brow. _There_ was something to be happy about, at any rate. Philly had never been anything but the pits. Really, how far was there to fall?

Tempting fate, that thought, but it cheered him anyway. Feeling more awake, Tony took a bite out of his toast, savoring the globs of raspberry jam he'd used to muffle the burnt taste. For someone who liked to cook, Maria really had lousy kitchen appliances.

Simply saying that she liked to cook, of course, did the woman a disservice. Last night's meal had been positively delicious, a veritable feast of traditional Italian cooking. The marinated pepper salad had been painful to eat—the vinaigrette dripping onto his ravaged lip—but that hadn't stopped him from consuming a generous helping, in spite of his host's protests that he stop, that he needn't eat it for _her _sake….

She was a lot sweeter than he'd expected. Softer. Giving. Tony wasn't sure he liked it. Something about her patience rubbed him the wrong way, possibly because he wasn't used to having someone he couldn't irritate when he put his mind to it. Was her refusal to respond in kind an attempt to unsettle him, or was she honestly unbothered? Tony couldn't tell.

Which was itself annoying.

Either way, she liked him far too much. Last night had been…awkward, at best. Not dinner, because they had stuck to discussing the implications of the case, of Macaluso's words—with Tony carefully skirting one particular topic. But sharing a bedroom…

That had been revealing.

And Tony didn't just mean her tantalizingly sheer nightgown.

At that moment the object of his musings shuffled out the bedroom, wrapped in a yellow silk bathrobe and not much else. Maria looked sleepy, her hair entertainingly mussed, but well-rested. Unlike him. In light of that injustice—and in hopes of putting off the topic he knew he needed to address—Tony thought it a good time to register his complaint.

"You know, for someone who likes to cook," Tony said, waving his toast vaguely in her direction, "You sure have lousy kitchen appliances. Your toaster nuked my breakfast."

Maria merely threw him a tolerant look before vanishing into the kitchen.

"Not even a 'good morning?' I'm hurt," the detective informed her loudly, taking another bite. "We're going to have to work on this morning thing. And your coffee maker stinks!"

The soft clatter of plates was his only response.

Well. So much for gaining a sociable roommate. Feeling rather piqued, Tony gave up on his toast. Lifting it above his head, he squeezed the bread until the jam began to drip his mouth.

"Goodness. Did your mother not teach you _any_ table manners?"

Tony abandoned his wad of bread, wiping his fingers on a napkin, before turning to face a rather amused looking Maria.

"Actually, she used to play with her potatoes," Tony said flatly. "Before she flung them at me."

Maria burst out laughing, plopping into a chair across from him. "Food fights?" When the Tony merely smiled inscrutably, she shook her head. "Wow. She must be a pretty wild mom."

"She was."

A subtle correction, but a significant one. Maria stilled mid sip, mouth molding into a small _oh_. Lowering her drink, she looked at him hesitantly. When he didn't respond, she grimaced.

"I'm sorry."

"It's been a long time," Tony said shortly, returning his attention to his own coffee.

The table was silent for a few minutes, aside from the slight clink of silverware and the enthusiastic sound of Maria's drinking. The detective stared into his own cup, a bit flabbergasted. For someone who had the nerve to comment on _his_ manners, Maria sure could slurp.

He debated slurping right back just to see if she'd actually get annoyed, but something stopped him. The surrealism of the moment, perhaps. Tony couldn't remember the last time he'd stayed for breakfast in a woman's home, even as crappy a breakfast as this. A tangle of panting and pleasure, a soft body pressed against his, then fleeing in the quiet before the dawn—that was what he was used to. Today…

Today he was out of his depth already, and he hadn't even slept with the woman.

Tony regarded his mangled chunk of berry-stained toast disgustedly. Maybe squashing it hadn't been the brightest idea in the world.

"There's nothing wrong with the toaster," Maria informed him, finally breaking the silence. In the soft morning light, red highlights shimmered in her hair. He hadn't noticed that before. "You had it set on three."

"So?" Tony protested, indignant. "I set my toaster on three every day, and it doesn't turn my bread into a smoking black carcass. That's what six is supposed to do. Take a toaster class, lady."

"My toaster only has three settings." The woman bit into one of her own perfectly golden pieces of bread. "My three equals your six."

Tony digested this piece of information.

"For an investigator, you're not all that observant." Maria sounded only very faintly smug. "Haven't you ever noticed that not all toasters have the same settings?"

"And the coffee maker?" Tony taunted right back, chagrined but unwilling to back down. "Is it really supposed to stop heating the water when it reaches room temperature?"

Now it was Maria's turn to look embarrassed. "The coffee maker," she admitted, "is a piece of trash. It was a gift from my dad. I swear he thinks I'll burn myself if the water is even slightly hot."

Grinning at the whine creeping in her voice—ha, so it _was_ possible to irritate her—Tony extended his own olive branch. "Well, maybe we can pick up a new one when we go out today."

"We're going out today?"

"Sure," Tony said easily. "New live-in boyfriend? Always stuff to pick up. Coffee makers that work, a Flat screen TV—"

Maria rolled her eyes amiably. "Oh, you wish."

"—toasters with six settings. Maybe we'll even run into a friend while we're out. Doesn't your friend Gina work in an electronics store? I'm sure you'll both want to catch up."

The woman's gaze sharpened. She knew what that meant. "Do I have news to share with her, Tony?"

He would have to tell her eventually, but it was more fun to be unhelpful. "You're asking me? Seems like you women always have something to chat about. Like little birds. Twitter-twitter-twitter-twitter-tweet—"

"Tony, if I didn't know you were trying to be annoying, I would be annoyed," Maria returned tiredly, cutting off his spiel. "What, _precisely_, do you think we have to talk about? Nail polish?" The look she gave him was pointed enough—_don't make me play games_—that Tony gave in.

"Your new, _charming_ Italian boyfriend," Tony said, flashing a smile specifically engineered to make women melt. Maria was far from immune; her answering smile, when it came, was wide and genuine. "And the fact he's moved in with you…to stay."

Maria's brows lifted; when she answered, her words were slow. "You've changed your mind. Why?"

Tony averted his gaze. He would have rather kept up the pretense. "Your cousin. He 'suggested' that if I dropped you like a hot potato, that he would question my motives."

"Ah."

A single word, barely uttered. Yet she still managed to sound pleased.

"It's nothing to be happy about," Tony snapped, shoving his plate to the side. "It's a disaster. It's dangerous. If I had any sense, I'd call off the whole damn thing."

Maria's eyes flashed, her cheeks suddenly blazing red. "You underestimate me, Tony. _I_ can be your backup."

"You think it's me I'm worried about? I'm worried about the mission. I can't do everything that two cops could have done. Without Gina to back me up, I'm doing this whole flipping thing solo—"

"I can assist—"

"And I'm worried about _you_!" Tony bellowed, silencing Maria with his vehemence. Taking a deep breath, Tony forced his voice to just below a whisper. "Ria. You can't be snooping around, making him suspicious. You've been my 'in'; you've already done your share. And I know you've been giving us bits and pieces of information for years, I know you can act, but this…is…_not_…the same."

As suddenly as his fury had risen, it vanished, leaving him drained. Maria's face was concerned now, rather than angry.

"First of all," she began gently, her voice as quiet as Tony's had been, "You underestimate your worth to this investigation. I've talked to Detective Gina. She will make a good point of contact, but she is not the cop you are. Secondly, you don't need to count me in your concerns. I'm an adult, and I have _always_ known what I was getting into. My life is mine to risk." She reached out, brushing his face with gentle fingers. "I'm not your responsibility, Tony."

But she was.

Maria rose to her feet, patting his cheek gently. "I'll go get dressed. Go make yourself some more toast. You need to feed those muscles." She sashayed back into the bedroom, full hips swaying a little more than was strictly necessary.

Tony put on an appreciative smirk until she turned the corner. Then he buried his head in his hands. He didn't want this. He'd never wanted this—had fought tooth and nail, in fact, to convince Maria against it in the early stages. But yesterday had forced him to reexamine the plan.

The new one wasn't great. In fact, it was just plain bad. If he and Maria never "broke up," he would have absolutely no backup, other than a mafia woman whom Macaluso told practically nothing. The department—James Bridenn in particular—would hate the idea, and with good reason. With no cops to back him, if things went sour, Tony would go down—and go down hard. But Watson would convince Bridenn that it was fine, that Tony was good enough to get himself out of _any_ straits…

Tony would have laughed at the thought, if it hadn't been so profoundly unfunny. Watson, with his puppy-dog like admiration! So convinced of Tony's excellence. On its face it was ridiculous—Tony had known since before he turned ten that he was a complete and utter mess. But more than that, it was fundamentally foolish. _No one_ was good enough to talk their way out of any situation, and Watson knew it. Even so, he would back Tony, because he'd convinced himself that this mission was their only chance. That Tony was the messiah, the key that could not only take down Mancuso, but also reveal all of his secrets…

As if anyone could.

Tony fought down a wave of anger. Any success he had in this mission would be paid for tenfold, in sweat, blood, tears or worse. He was no superhero.

No matter what Watson believed.

_ Damn the man. _

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Maria might like to lounge in casual clothes, but there was no doubt the woman knew how to dress. Tony watched in frank admiration as she slipped out of the master bathroom, wearing a curve-hugging pencil skirt and a softly shirred red blouse. She'd pinned up her hair, up except for a few delicate tendrils, and the soft style suited her in a way that her loose hair hadn't.

She looked beautiful. More than that, she looked classy.

That was a problem.

Tony hadn't dated a wagon load of girls without learning a thing or two about danger signs. A skimpy outfit—that would have been alright. More than alright. He was perfectly content to engage in meaningless flirtations, asking for nothing and promising less. If she'd just been looking to impress him sexually—not that it would have taken much—she would have flashed a little more boob and a lot more leg, and he would have known precisely how to handle her.

But an outfit like this—gently seductive, sweetly attractive—signaled a more serious intent. Maria paused in her attempts to latch her necklace, and seeing him in the doorway, beamed. No doubt she was hoping he'd offer to help, but Tony stood unmoving, his heart sinking like a stone.

She couldn't possibly think this could work. Even Tony could see it was a train wreck waiting to happen, and he was hardly the poster boy for prudence. Mixing work with romance, emotions with impossibly high stress…it was so foolish that Tony could barely fathom the implications of it. And latching on to _him_, of all people…

Maria had definitely been alone too long.

Three years, precisely, since she had turned her back on her brother's and father's business. Tony watched as she applied a warm pink powder to her cheeks, her movements practiced. It couldn't have been an easy move to make, even aside from the danger. Walking away—literally or figuratively—from family was not a decision made lightly.

Tony knew that better than most.

"All done," Maria said finally, blotting her lipstick with the back of her hand. A leisurely smile crept onto her face. She rotated on the spot, hands on her hips. "So…what do you think?"

It was instinct to compliment her. With an opening like that, he could hardly refrain, unless he wanted to add an extremely ticked-off woman to his list of woes. But somehow he had to correct this misguided hope of hers, before it exploded in their faces.

"I think you have excellent taste in clothes."

An unmistakably lackluster response. Maria's smile slipped off her face, the coy light in her eyes faltering. Without a word, she snatched her purse of the bed and slipped by him.

He hadn't meant to hurt her. Tony hastened to pull the apartment door open, letting her walk through first—despite what the Philly female police officers probably thought, he _could _be gentlemanly when he put his mind to it—but she made no response.

Maria led the way into the elevator, her movements stiff. Tony supposed that could have to do with her form fitting pencil skirt, but somehow he doubted it. As the doors pulled shut, he risked a glance at her profile.

Rigid as stone.

Tony sighed, scrambling to think of something that would diffuse her hurt feelings. He'd certainly dealt with enough angry women to have some practice at it.

"It really is a nice outfit," Tony ventured.

"Oh, shut up," Maria said, voice acidic enough to burn through rock.

Evidently, practice hadn't much improved his skills. Giving up the attempt entirely, Tony left Maria to collect the hotel key and departed to the parking garage to pull up their car.

It wasn't there.

Instantly on guard, Tony glanced around, eyes tracking every car in the aisle. No one was in sight. Deliberately, he dropped his car keys. They hit with a jangling noise, sounding ten times louder than normal. Tony crouched down under pretense of collecting them, scanning underneath the cars. No feet.

Sweat tickled his brow. He swiped it away, angry with himself—this was no time for a fit of nerves—and paused. Somehow, he doubted this was a random car theft. And if Macaluso was behind it…

It was a test. Or a ploy. To what purpose, Tony wasn't sure. Unless, of course, Macaluso simply wanted to psyche him out. If so, it was working. Tony shivered convulsively, skin crawling with the sensation of being watched.

But it didn't really matter which it was. Either way, he wasn't going to play by their rules. He'd _never _played by anyone else's rules, and he sure as hell wasn't going to start now. If his hunch was right, and Macaluso was waiting for him to panic…well, then.

He'd simply have to panic.

Grinning sharply, Tony pressed down on hard on the electric key's panic button.

Across the parking lot, a car erupted in a volley of beeping, the sound echoing wildly off the concrete walls. The return to silence was almost instantaneous, which confirmed exactly what he'd suspected—not only was his car still here, but someone was in it.

A moment passed. Then headlights flashed from across the garage, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of an engine starting up.

His car appeared around the corner, driving slowly. Blinded by the lights, Tony stepped backwards, and not a moment too soon—the car sped up abruptly, screeching to a stop just inches from where he'd stood.

The window rolled down, revealing a calmly smiling Macaluso. "Sorry, Florentino. Sometimes I forget to brake." The mafia boss shrugged, still smiling oddly.

Possibly the most insincere apology Tony had ever heard in his life, and he'd grown up with Anthony DiNozzo Sr. In light of the fact he wasn't a grease spot on the concrete, however, he thought he might just take it.

"No worries," Tony said easily, matching the other man's shrug. "Musta startled you with that panic button, so I guess we're even. Sorry about that. So, what do you think?" He gestured at the car, the movement expansive. "Nice wheels, huh? You're welcome for the loan, by the way."

"It is not quite what I'm used to," Macaluso returned coolly, "And not in a good way. Get in."

"Yeah, I know. The brake sticks. For a rental, they didn't put much work into it. Think I should ask for a refund?"

From the look Macaluso was giving him, he was pushing his luck. He'd pay for that later, in ways he'd rather not contemplate, but something was keeping him talking. It was like tiptoeing through a minefield—no one liked to be made a fool of, but meekness would get him nowhere.

And either extreme could blow his foot off.

"Florentino. Get in." Macaluso's eyes were dark and glittering, though his voice was unruffled.

Tony swung into the backseat, letting his grin fade. He'd pushed it far enough.

He only hoped he hadn't pushed it too far.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter Notes: And Tony's back in the game. I know, a lot of Maria/Tony interaction this time, but next chapter? Gibbs! Let me know what you think. I have to say, I really think I've got the best reviewers on the planet. :D You (and Jet Lag) make my week! Also, thanks to my silent readers. I'm glad you're reading, and I hope you're enjoying.

A note on my next update: I'll get it up as soon as I can, but I can't promise anything quite this speedy. It's halfway done, but I have a scary-looking midterm coming up and I'd really rather not destroy my grade point average, so please be patient if I have to study. :D


	4. Like I Always Do

"_I woke up early this morning_

_Made my coffee like I always do…"_

—_8__th__ World Wonder_ by Kimberley Locke

~*~*~*~*~*~

_Several_ _weeks later._

~*~*~*~*~*~

Today might just be the day he finally cracked. Special Agent Gibbs glared at them, both of them, and took a bracing gulp of his coffee. Bitter as gasoline. Just the way he liked it, and satisfying enough to momentarily distract him from the train wreck that was his team.

Momentarily.

"Dead marine," Gibbs repeated harshly. To his disbelief, they still stood frozen, eyes as wide as those of a deer caught in the middle of the highway. "Burley, gas the truck. Vivian, _grab your gear_."

His senior field agent—his very _junior_ senior field agent, Gibbs thought darkly—jumped to his feet. "But gassing the truck is probie work," Burley protested, swinging his backpack over his shoulder.

"Well, yeah, Stan. That'd be why I assigned it to you." Reaching the elevator, Gibbs jammed the down button. "Because my _senior field agent_," he continued dangerously, blue eyes icy, "Had damn well better learn to anticipate!"

Vivian smirked as she darted into the elevator. Gibbs caught a glimpse of Burley's offended face just before the doors pulled closed, then turned on his actual probie. "What the hell are ya smiling at, Blackadder?"

That wiped the smile from her face as swiftly as it had appeared, leaving her pale and terrified. Gibbs glowered into his coffee, and wondered, not for the first time, if her hair had subconsciously influenced him into picking her for his team. Of course, it had been more than that—she was unusually skilled at profiling—but after two months of watching her quake in her boots, he couldn't help but be suspicious. Gloriously curling red hair, she had. On his good days, he had a soft spot for her because of it.

On his bad days, it reminded him of his second wife.

And today was definitely going to be a bad day. A frantic call from a shop owner in Baltimore had come in just as he was collecting his morning coffee—fortunately, not before—and from the sounds of things, the crime wasn't a pretty one. The man had been near hysterics, according to the police department who'd taken the call, ranting about blood and gore and shredded flesh. Of course, Gibbs had enough experience to take this testimony with a grain of salt. Perhaps even a pinch of it.

Not everyone handled their first corpse well.

On the other hand, even accounting for exaggeration, the murder sounded nasty. At best. And the circumstances were…unsettling. The body had been discovered in shopping district that was secluded, but hardly known for its violent crime. Purse snatching, theft, even the occasional robbery, was expected. But assault? And more than that, assault ending in murder? It was unusual for the area, to the point of making Gibbs's gut clench.

It felt off. The whole day felt wrong. Not to the extent that Gibbs would refuse to take the case, but enough to make him wary.

Of course, he'd never been anything but.

~*~*~*~*~*~

By the time they reached the crime scene, Gibbs was feeling substantially better. There was a certain satisfaction at washing the perpetually confident look off Burley's face. Stan stumbled out of the car, looking as though he wanted to throw up, and a tiny smile hovered over Gibbs's lips. His senior field agent had never adjusted to his unconventional driving style.

The smile disappeared the moment he got a good look at the body. "Shredded" was in fact a highly accurate description. From the neck down, the marine was a mass of torn and bloodied flesh. Someone had draped him almost artistically over the concrete steps in the back alley. Brown eyes gazed emptily from his clean-shaven face. From the color—or lack thereof—of the flesh Gibbs could see, the man had bled out. Not that Gibbs really needed that clue, considering the copious amounts of blood staining the corpse.

"Gerald, I recall quite clearly having said West_lake_ Street, not West _Oak_ Street—oh, good Lord."

The familiar tones of Gibbs's medical examiner interrupted his morbid musing. "Hey, Duck," he said amiably. "Traffic problems?"

"Hello, Jethro, and no. Assistant problems," the older man answered darkly, crouching by the corpse. "Gerald, go get my equipment. My dear boy, I am afraid you did not pass easily."

The sorrowful comment was addressed to the corpse, and someone who had not known Ducky long might have been thrown by his habit of talking to the victim, but Gibbs had long since gotten over it. "Wounds inflicted before death?"

"Well, I can't say for certain until I get our victim back to autopsy, but yes, I think it is a safe assumption. Unfortunately. The torture is really quite extensive. Vivian, my dear, you are blocking my light."

The agent was staring at the body with a sick look in her pretty eyes. "Sorry, Ducky," she croaked, and snapped another picture before stepping out of the way. Gibbs spared her a scant moment of compassion before turning his attention back to his medical examiner. Sometimes he thought she was ill-suited to law enforcement, but even the strongest-stomached agent would have had a hard time not being affected by this particular sight.

"Petty Officer Johnny Chaplin," Stan announced, rejoining the crowd around the body. "Local LEOs identified him."

"Did they move the body?" Ducky demanded, taking a liver probe from the hands of his assistant. "Thank you, Gerald."

"No, Dr. Mallard. His dog tags were visible." He knelt down, inspecting the remains with a revulsion so strong it bordered on fascination. "They didn't touch it."

"There a reason you're not working, Burley?" Gibbs's tone was only slightly dangerous, but it was enough to make the younger agent get to his feet. "Go talk to the shop owner man who found the body. Now."

Gibbs shook his head as Burley stalked away. The stiff set of his retreating shoulders hinted that Stan was more mad than hurt about the comment. Still, if Gibbs had been a nicer man, he might have regretted phrasing the rebuke quite that way.

But he'd never been anything but a bastard.

"Time of death, Duck?"

"Well, I can't be quite sure, but if the body temperature is any indication, our Petty Officer has been dead for several hours. Four to six, perhaps, depending on temperature of the place where the poor boy actually died."

Gibbs leaned partway over, resting his hands on his knees. To his disgust, they creaked slightly. His limbs liked to remind him he was getting old. "Body was moved."

"Oh, almost certainly, Jethro. Even as much blood as we have here, there would be considerably more were this the murder scene. No, I'm afraid," Ducky said slowly, surveying the crime scene with a careful eye, "that the poor boy was planted here. An attempt to disguise the actual murder scene?"

"Or a message." Heaving a faint sigh, Gibbs pulled himself to his feet, and tried not to let the reek of death unsettle his stomach.

Somehow, one never grew used to the smell.

The man who'd discovered the body was waiting outside the crime scene, chubby face stiff with horror. "I'm Mack. Mack Brakel. I just drove in, like every day, I just wanted to open my store," he explained feverishly, twisting the hem of his jacket with both hands. "And then—oh, God. It was on my step."

From the volume and increasingly high pitch of the voice, the man was definitely nearing hysteria—barely knew what he was saying, no doubt. But Gibbs still couldn't let that slip. "Not an it. A marine."

"Of course," Mack said, responding automatically to the hard tone, though Gibbs suspected he hadn't actually registered the words. "I drove in around seven thirty—seven-thirty three, actually, I remember, because I reached up to change the radio channel because I didn't like the song, and I saw the time just before I saw _it_, and—oh, _God_. Why do I have to talk to you? I already talked to the other agent. Why can't I go home?"

Mack had a point. Typically, Gibbs would have let an agent take the statement, and then sent the witness home. But as things stood now, he wasn't sure he could depend on his team to ask the sort of questions that got the right answers.

And without the right answers, the whole investigation was crippled from the start.

In fairness—not that Gibbs was particularly concerned about being fair—he was probably being too hard on Burley. The man was a competent investigator, and by Gibbs's standards, that actually meant something. But competence was one thing. _Excellence_ required a level of insight that Gibbs frankly doubted Stan would ever possess. Some had it, some didn't. Some gained it eventually, and maybe Burley would, but in the meantime, it was up to him as the lead agent to fill in the gaps.

"Yeah, you can go home," Gibbs replied easily, garnering a surprised look from Stan. "But we'd appreciate if you came in to NCIS headquarters with us first."

"I haven't done anything wrong!"

The protest was swift. Almost…too swift. Contrasting Mack's build—short, out of shape, flabby-muscled—to that of the battle-trained marine made the idea of Brakel as a suspect unlikely to the point of being almost laughable. Still, Mack definitely seemed uneasy at the suggestion, and he'd make one hell of a poor investigator if he didn't try to figure out why.

"I know," Gibbs responded, though he didn't. "Just have a few questions that might help us solve the case. Didn't think you'd mind."

From Mack's expression, he was far from crazy about the idea. But one look at the agent's immovable face and he buckled. "No, no. Of course not. It will be quick, though, right, sir?"

The agent's inscrutable smile was his only response.

~*~*~*~*~*~

In the fluorescent lights of the NCIS break room, Mack Brakel looked somehow diminished. Considering that he'd been a shrimp of a man to start with, the transformation was particularly unflattering.

"Mr. Brakel. Take a seat."

The tone was courteous, the words borderline, but Mack looked too miserable to refuse. He sat slowly.

Gibbs eased into the chair across from him, icy blue eyes boring levelly into the witness's darker pair. The other man averted his eyes, swallowing. Nervous.

Good.

"No need to be nervous. You told me you hadn't done anything wrong." Gibbs shrugged his shoulders, his shirt settling as he did so. "Well, then there's nothing to worry about."

Mack shifted, shaking his head emphatically. "I didn't." His wispy hair fluttered with the force of the movement, exposing a sweaty brow.

"Yeah. Yeah, you keep saying that." A soft huff of laughter escaped from Gibbs's mouth. The sound was almost entirely devoid of humor; instantly, the witness stiffened. "You know something I've learned over my time at NCIS? It's that the people who don't have anything to hide, they don't keep bringing it up. So each time you say that…it kinda makes me think that you're hiding something from me." It was Gibbs's turn to shake his head, a deliberate movement.

"I'm not! I haven't done anything against the law, I swear!"

It was almost too easy. With someone so close to panicking, "interrogating" barely deserved the term. A tweak here, a nudge there, and Brakel was already near the breaking point.

Given twenty minutes, Gibbs would have him spilling his darkest secrets.

"Haven't done anything _against the law_. Now, that's an interesting distinction, Mack. You wanna guess what that tells me?"

Judging from the silence, Mack didn't.

"That tells me you've done something you don't think is right. And I'm guessing…I'm guessing it has something to do with my case. That makes it my business." Gibbs leaned forward, placing his forearms flat on the table. "I take my business seriously."

The young man leaned away, eyes going wide. Gibbs didn't back off. "You know what else that makes it? Obstruction of justice. You keep me from the information I need, you keep me from bringing Petty Officer Chaplin's killer to justice!" The last words emerged as a shout; pulling to his feet, the silver haired agent loomed over Mack. "That what you want?"

"It's—it's not like that," Mack protested, face anguished. "Wait—you don't understand—"

Gibbs slammed his hand down on the table. A nearby coffee cup rattled, trembling wildly in its saucer. "_What don't I understand?_" He roared.

"He'll kill me!"

The words burst out of the witness like water released from a dam. Deflating, Mack sank back against the seat.

That was…not what he'd expected. Gibbs lowered back into his own chair, cocking a single eyebrow. "'He?'"

If Brakel had looked miserable before, it was nothing compared to now. "I'm not positive," he muttered, fixing his gaze on the tabletop. "It was dark. I couldn't see well."

"Can't help you if you don't tell us who he is." The agent's voice was not precisely unkind, but Mack still winced.

The silence stretched.

"My cousin works with the Philadelphia police," the witness said finally—haltingly. "They have a suspect that…that's tied to murders like this. And when I drove up this morning, I thought…I saw him. With the body. But…it doesn't make any sense."

"Making sense of it's not your job," Gibbs told him, voice firm. "That's my job."

"I won't testify! I can't, alright? I have a wife." Mack's face crumpled slightly. "I have a son. I can't mix them up in this."

"Who."

More of a statement than a question, but it was enough. Brakel leaned forward, his hands shaking lightly as they brushed the table; the words, when they came, shook too.

"Mike Macaluso."

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Mike Macaluso," Burley repeated, pressing a button on the remote. An image flew onto the screen—a photograph. Professionally taken, if the quality was anything to go by.

Not, Gibbs was willing to admit privately, that he knew anything about cameras. Heaving a sigh, the agent pealed off his coat and sank into his special desk chair. Narrowing his eyes, he scrutinized the man in the picture.

Dark eyed. Perfectly coiffed black hair. Olive-toned skin. Handsome, in the slick, oily way that made the deep shadows under his eyes dramatic rather than unflattering.

A player. Macaluso had the look. More than that, he had a tired cast to his skin indicative of someone who'd had more than his fair share of alcohol, and probably at least his fair share of drugs. Definitely someone who'd lived the hard life—or the high one.

Perhaps a combination of both.

"He's a suspected Mafia boss in Philadelphia," Stan announced, pressing another button. "Recently came into power, according to our sources—if recently means in the last five years or so. In terms of an official criminal record, he's pretty clean; a handful of minor assault charges as a teenager, and quite a few parking tickets."

"Unofficially?" Gibbs prompted.

"He's thought to have something to do with twenty-seven unsolved murders in the Philly area," Vivian responded, blushing as her leader's intense gaze settled on her. For once, she stood her ground. "They can't prove it, but…" She shrugged prettily. "You know how it goes."

Gibbs did. Far better than he would like to.

"The method of murder is exactly the same as that of Petty Officer Chaplin." Stan tapped the screen with his knuckles. "No marks on the face, and the rest of the body lacerated. Sounds like Brakel might have something, Boss."

"Philly's a long way from Baltimore." Gibbs rose to his feet, grabbing up his jacket with one hand. "What've you got on Chaplin?"

"He doesn't have any close family members," Vivian said, moving to join them in front of the screen. "No spouse and no kids. His parents are both deceased. And he doesn't have any criminal record. We haven't been able to contact his squad leader yet, but—"

"Keep digging," Gibbs said roughly. "I want to know every last thing about both of them, relatives, pets, histories—hell, what brand of _socks_ they buy. We've still got nothing."

He strode away, but just before the elevator doors closed, Vivian's meek inquiry floated across the bullpen:

"Is he serious about the socks?"

Gibbs grinned.

~*~*~*~*~*~

If this was what music had come to mean, it was a wonder that all musicians hadn't been tossed off the edge of the earth. Eyes watering, Gibbs slammed his hand down on the machine that seemed to be the source of the horrendous screeching.

Blessed silence.

"Gibbs! Don't you like Flesh Eating Slugs?"

A tall, black-clad figure bounced around the corner of the laboratory, balancing a tray of glass vials on one hand. In spite of her gait, they didn't wobble; Abby Sciuto was nothing if not coordinated, even when balancing on today's ridiculously high platform boots. Her tidy black pigtails, on the other hand, were in constant movement, swinging freely as she darted forward to give Gibbs a one-armed hug.

Closing his eyes, he held her close for a moment, inhaling the scent of—whatever it was that the forensics expert considered a satisfactory perfume. Gibbs didn't dare to hazard a guess; with the young Goth, ignorance was often the best policy. However, the scent was very Abby, sweet and unique, and he felt his heart soften as she pulled away.

Abby placed the tray on a nearby table, and folded her arms. Her green eyes, outlined in heavy black eye shadow, were slightly stern. "Gibbs, I _need_ my music," she informed him. "When Stan wants to relax, he goes to a bar. When Viv wants to relax, she knits. When you want to relax, you shut yourself in your basement and work on wood. But when _I_ want to relax, _I_ put on music. Not that forensics isn't relaxing, because it is. And not that listening to music is the only thing I do to relax, because it isn't. 'Cause I also go clubbing, and that's relaxing, though that has music too, so I don't know if it counts. And I go bowling, and shop for lingerie, and—"

Gibbs pressed a rough finger to her lips, ending the prattle. He _really_ didn't want to think about his precious Abby buying lingerie.

Though the fact that Vivian knitted was…interesting.

"I _need_ it, Gibbs," Abby insisted when he removed his hand.

"And you can turn it back on," he agreed, stepping back. "_After_ you show me what you've got."

Abby wrinkled her nose, but flounced cheerfully enough over to one of the lab's computers, her many chains clinking. "O_kay_. Wanna start with the 'got', or with the 'don't got'?"

"You better not have called me down here to tell me what you don't got, Abbs."

"Ooh, my good English is spreading. No, don't look at me like that, Gibbs," Abby protested earnestly, catching his expression. "In this case, what I _don't_ have is every bit as important as what I do. It's almost good news. Except that it's really bad news. Very, _very_ bad news. But—"

"Abbs!"

Gibbs pinned her with a glare designed to make the bravest marine crumble. As usual, the forensics expert was undaunted. Smiling innocently, Abby continued her speech. "So. The 'don't have.' The blood workups and the tox screens on Petty Officer Johnny Chaplin came back completely clean. No drugs. Whoever did this—"

"—wanted him aware," the special agent finished, leaning in and squinting to try read the information on the screen. As usual, it made no sense whatsoever.

At times he suspected Abby of making it up as she went along.

"Or just didn't have ready access to drugs," Abby suggested, adjusting her spiked dog collar. "Or a lot of other things. Now. There was no organic material under his fingernails, so it doesn't look like he was able to scratch his attacker, and there were no fingerprints on his clothes or dog tags. Wiped clean. But what I _did_ find was this."

Reaching toward the tray of vials, she selected one with a blue cap, and flourished it as dramatically as a magician revealing the results of his trick. "A human hair," the Goth finished smugly. "Dark. From the melanin levels, either brown or black. And it's not Chaplin's. If it belongs to the killer, it could go a long way towards arresting him." Placing the container gently back into its holder, she spun to face Gibbs. "I've also been able to identify the kind of knife that was used to kill Chaplin. The wavy pattern of the slices was very distinct; I noticed that when I first took a look at the body. So I compared it to a database of the more specialized knives on the market, and presto!"

Abby pressed a key; an image of a wooden handled knife flashed onto the screen. "It's a custom design, Gibbs. It's so distinctive, it's not all that big on even the black market, because it's too easy to trace. But it's very, very expensive. Our killer has deep pockets."

"That's good work." Gibbs turned to go, mind spinning. No fingerprints. That meant a careful killer. The knife was a good clue; if they found one in a suspect's possession, it would make their case a lot stronger. The chances of finding it, however…

Abby's miserable voice halted his progress.

"Gibbs? I haven't told you the bad news yet."

Wonderful.

She stared at the floor, biting her black-coated lip. "I ran across something, when I was researching the knife. This same type of blade was used in the twenty-seven Philadelphia murders. And I know, I shouldn't jump to conclusions until all the information is in, but please, Gibbs…just promise me you'll be careful."

She looked very young as she stood there, looking up at him mournfully through her sooty lashes. For a moment, he wished he could promise her. Instead, he leaned down and pecked her on the cheek. He'd never believed in platitudes.

Especially one as echoingly empty as this.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter Notes: At long last, here you are! Apologies for the delay, but it _is_ the second longest chapter I've written, if that's any consolation. (I think my midterm went very well. Thanks for the good wishes!) Of course, my Chemistry professor has now decided to torture me with a midterm, so while I'll try to get another chapter to you this weekend, there may be another delay.

Enjoy! Thanks to all of you for your delightful reviews last chapter. :D Let me know what you think! This installment was somewhat difficult at first—Gibbs and I had to work some things out.


	5. Put Down, Pushed Around

"_I've been put down, pushed around, _

_Apprehended and led downtown,_

_I can't help it if I'm full of fight_

'_Cause I'm restless tonight…"_

—_Restless _by Alison Krauss and Union Station

~*~*~*~*~*~

There were no such things as coincidences.

In the shadowed light of the basement, Gibbs pulled the folder shut, and stared at it as though an explanation might pop from its pages by the sheer force of his will.

Patterns. He'd always had a knack for seeing them. A notion of what was logical; a sense of what drove people. Mostly, of what a pattern indicated—and how a seemingly innocent turn of events could hint at a darker truth.

But this?

This was an implication so dark he didn't care to contemplate it.

Gibbs flipped the case folder back open, expression growing even grimmer. Detective Anthony DiNozzo. Twenty-seven. Born to a New York family, recently transferred from Peoria, and owner of the most impish grin Gibbs had ever laid eyes on. In the picture, the young detective looked—relaxed. Young. Carefree. And fundamentally happy, in a way that Gibbs hadn't been for a long time.

It was convincing. So convincing, in fact, that the NCIS agent had barely been able to hold in his snort when Director Morrow had handed him the case file. He'd never much liked Philly, but if they were letting young yahoos with barely three years of law enforcement under their belts investigate high-profile homicides….well, then they were worse off then he'd thought.

Their lead investigator was more experienced, of course. But not by much—and Locke Keyes was a mediocre cop at best, if his record had anything to say about it. Gibbs had not been impressed, and as he delved into the files of each of the suspected Macaluso killings, his expectations for the other detectives had been low to the point of irretrievable.

And there he'd made his first misjudgment.

There _had_ been no other detectives.

Except that wasn't quite true. Philadelphia had assigned other investigators, but only a few. The first murder had happened four years ago, the second a few months after, and as the killings grew from a few scattered incidents to a slow but steady trickle, a handful of different detectives had investigated. But up until a year ago, the killings had remained just that—a trickle.

A year ago, they'd turned into a flood.

And exactly one year ago, Detective Anthony DiNozzo had arrived from Peoria.

By itself, that meant nothing. Gibbs might not believe in coincidences, but cops transferred all of the time, for many reasons. Considering that DiNozzo's partner had recently been killed—an undercover operation gone bad, according to the file—it was hardly a shock that the kid might want a change of scenery.

That DiNozzo had taken every last Macaluso murder from the time he arrived in Philly was far less benign.

Gibbs tilted his glass of water, wishing it was bourbon. Six to one, the chances were that he was mistaken. The bleak story of how DiNozzo's Peoria career had ended might put the lie to the idea that the kid was carefree, but it didn't make him disturbed. And yet…

The young man was clever. Talented. Or so said his performance evaluations. He'd know the system well enough by now to have an idea how to work it, and he'd be equipped with the knowledge of precisely how the previous killings had been executed. If the detective had been able to maneuver so that each new murder fell to his own investigation…

_DiNozzo himself could be responsible for the rapid increase in deaths._

And no one would have any way of knowing.

The idea was so fiendishly clever that Gibbs found it impossible to ignore, even as his subconscious whispered that he was insane. A murderer, operating under the guise of investigating the very murders he himself had committed? A copycat killer, able to mimic the original so well that no one could tell them apart?

It was extrapolation of the worst kind, so profoundly unlikely that he felt embarrassed even thinking it, much less stating the thought out loud. There could be an explanation. Probably was. And it was none of his business, in any case. His involvement started and ended with Chaplin. Director Morrow had made that perfectly clear.

For once, Gibbs was halfway inclined to follow him. If Brakel's sighting had been real, and not just the fear-induced imaginings of a man who'd heard too many stories….

Then Gibbs was up against the whole God-forsaken Mafia, and that was more than enough for even him. And yet…

Something didn't add up. Frustrated, the agent shrugged on his bulky green overcoat in one jerking movement. The case had been off from the start—_hinky_, as Abby would put it. There had been no leads on Chaplin's friends or from his squad leader. No suspicious activity, no enemies on base, no deep family secrets. A model marine, from all indications. Not remarkable, but solid. _Dependable._ That had been the byword, as far as Chaplin was concerned. _Dependable. Loyal. A good friend._

Not the sort of man one expected to simply vanish one Friday night, only to reappear as a mangled cadaver. Macaluso might have a reason to have been in Baltimore—a business, ostensibly—but what motive would have prompted him to have Chaplin killed?

It was only one in an infuriatingly long string of problems with their theory. But Gibbs had nothing better, and the only thing he could think of was to follow the story to its source. That meant Philadelphia. And Detective Keyes. And most of all, it meant talking to Detective DiNozzo, because there was nothing that felt right about that scenario.

But he couldn't let himself be distracted. Gibbs grabbed up his small suitcase from its position at the base of the steps, and began to climb. He was going to Philly to find justice for Chaplin, and that would remain his goal until the killer was put behind bars. If he found out answers about DiNozzo along the way…

Gibbs's smile was razor edged.

So much the better.

~*~*~*~*~*~

In spite of the brisk November air, the outdoor café was teeming with patrons.

A nearby teenager yattered on her cell, complaining about school, boys, homework and just about everything else under the sun. A frayed-looking mother struggled to keep three wailing children in check. Couples, young and old, sat facing on another. Some were arguing, others laughing. One, a young man and his blond-haired sweetheart, pelted each other with carrots, yelping whenever either of them made a hit.

Tony thought it looked like fun.

"I think this is the worst café in the entirety of Philadelphia."

Tony tore his gaze away from the game, and faced the man across from him. Cast into sharp relief by the intense sunlight, Macaluso looked every bit as sour as the comment had sounded. The lines around his handsome mouth were set in disgusted furrows; his fingers tapped agitatedly as he scanned the crowd.

"Doesn't seem your kind of place," Tony conceded, taking a sip from his drink. It was bitter enough to make him gag, but he swallowed past the feeling. "Loud. Unsophisticated. Lots of little kids screaming their heads off. So, why are we here, again?"

"Tony, Tony." Macaluso favored the detective with a smile that bordered on indulgent. "Always prying. Always poking. You need to learn patience."

"Yeah, that's what my father always used to tell me," Tony agreed, biting into a green olive with relish. "Never really seemed to stick. Sorry, did you mention why we were here, because I think I missed it. Pretty dang loud out here—"

"We are waiting for a friend," Macaluso interrupted, tone disinterested. He leaned back in his chair, the motion languid. "It is hard to be overheard in this hellhole. That is why we are sitting here. Not for the atmosphere. And certainly not for those revolting olives." The mafia boss flicked his own olive off the plate, sending it sailing to the pavement below. He shuddered theatrically. "Nauseating."

Tony picked up another, and eyed it speculatively. Huh. He hadn't thought they were so bad. "A friend I should know?"

Macaluso ignored the question, instead gesturing at the food in Tony's hand. "Put that down. Sometime I will introduce you to _Manzanilla_ olives, from Spain. Then you will never eat these paltry American imitations again."

"Never been to Spain. So, an old friend? New friend?" Tony prompted, eyes sharp. Macaluso didn't answer, choosing instead to stare at him with curiously hooded eyes. Shrugging, the detective tilted back his head and opened his mouth, intending to flip the olive into it.

Iron fingers locked around his wrist. "I said, put it down."

Macaluso's voice was dangerously smooth, his expression inscrutable. But his dark eyes smoldered like embers.

A warning, one so clear that Tony's body screamed for him to obey. Memories of past pain raced through his mind, but somehow he found himself resisting, holding Macaluso's gaze with his own.

For a moment, time stood still.

Then Tony dropped his eyes.

The bruising grip held for a scant second more, then released. Macaluso eased backwards, a smirk playing on his lips.

Tony returned the olive to the plate, his skin crawling. Mind games. Day in, day out. A contest of spirit, a battle of wills, wrapped in a guise of tolerance and sometimes affection. It was exhausting to keep up with, and still harder to guard himself against. But worst of all was the feeling of being controlled.

He'd always hated that more than anything.

~*~*~*~*~*~

If there was anything that annoyed Gibbs more than being denied entrance, it was encountering someone impervious to his form of intimidation.

The first was rare, the second rarer. Today, he was dealing with both.

"NCIS," Gibbs rapped out, flashing his ID. "Special Agent Gibbs. I need to speak to Director James Bridenn."

The Officer behind the desk—brown-eyed, blond haired, and impossibly tall—smiled back in a friendly way. "Nice to meet you. I'm Steve. Officer Steve Kraut. Lemme just find your visitor pass, and…" The man swung his office chair closer, and began typing energetically; after a moment, his movements faltered. "Crap. You're not on the list. Are you sure you're at the right police station?"

How many damned police departments did the man think Philly had? "Oh, so I'm not talking to Philadelphia PD?" Gibbs asked mockingly. "You telling me Director Bridenn works somewhere else?"

Vivian would have blushed and fumbled. Even Stan would have backed down, recognizing an impending storm.

But Kraut was undaunted.

"No, he works here," Steve answered calmly. "But we don't have you down on the list. You'll have to make an appointment, sorry. There aren't any openings left today."

Gibbs was extremely tempted to slap the man. "It's case related," the agent returned, in a voice just short of a growl.

Steve's expression wasn't unsympathetic, but he held his ground. "Sorry. Those are the security rules. If you want—"

"It's about Macaluso."

Amazing the difference a few words could make. Gibbs watched with interest as the large man blanched, the ruddy color draining completely from his cheeks.

"Is this about…" Steve lowered his voice, expression panicked. "…Tony? Is he alright?"

Tony. Could that be _Anthony?_ Gibbs wasn't sure, and he had no idea what the officer was talking about. But he hadn't gotten this far by not knowing how to play an advantage. "Hope so," he answered vaguely, and almost felt guilty when Kraut spun back to the computer, looking stricken.

"God. I'll get you in somehow. There's got to a record of you, there's just got to be…" After a moment of frantic typing, Steve hesitated. "Well, there's someone named Tibbs who's scheduled for today. Guess it would be easy for me to get you two confused. Names being similar and all." He scrabbled through the contents of his drawer, producing a visitor's badge.

A fairly crafty solution to the problem. Gibbs might even have thought Kraut clever—if the man hadn't been completely obvious to the fact he'd just been thoroughly manipulated. Nodding his thanks, the special agent vanished up the stairwell, ignoring Steve's halfhearted shout that he was supposed to be accompanied by an officer.

Being old enough to claim deafness had its uses. So did charm. A judicious use of the latter, when combined with a flash of his NCIS badge, did wonders with Bridenn's receptionist, and he found himself in the Director's office a great deal faster than he'd expected.

Unnecessary subterfuge, as it turned out.

"Agent Tibbs," Bridenn greeted easily, rising to his feet as Gibbs entered. "Director Morrow told me to expect you." He extended a thin hand; Gibbs grasped it, and looked the other man over. Skinny as a rail, scraggly-haired, and outfitted in a suit at least one size too big, he had the look of a man who'd let himself go. But his handshake was firm, his gaze straightforward and—as Gibbs took as seat—unmistakably sharp.

"So, your director didn't give me many details," Bridenn said conversationally, sinking back down with a sigh. "You have a case that you think is connected to one of ours?"

"Not much of the 'think' about it." A lie, of course. But possibly closer to the truth than if he'd expressed his doubts—and certainly more effective. "I need to talk to two of your Detectives. Keyes and DiNozzo."

Bridenn stilled, face suddenly wary. "Is this about Macaluso?"

"Might be."

As with Kraut, the confirmation had a visible effect on the director. Instead of becoming terrified, however, Bridenn merely looked pained. And indecisive.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Bridenn said slowly. "Detectives DiNozzo and Keyes are not available at this time. I'm familiar with the case details, however, so any information you need I will be happy to supply."

"Not available?" Gibbs let his voice carry a hint of asperity. "I've got a dead marine, sir. A good man. I've got an eyewitness that can place Macaluso at the crime scene, and forensics that might match with your departments', but neither of your lead detectives on the case are _available_?" By the end of his speech, the words were colored with outrage, and Bridenn was frowning.

"Detective Tony DiNozzo is on an undercover operation," The director said abruptly. "His partner is assisting him."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows. Undercover? Suspicion rose like a wave in his mind, and suddenly, he knew.

"Undercover with Macaluso?"

"How the hell do you know that?" Bridenn asked, rising to his feet. The words snapped out like the crack of a whip. He looked…unnerved.

As well he should be. Kraut had been careless, that much was clear. Would he give away the same information to anyone who came in through those doors expressing concern about Macaluso? Or had Gibbs merely been particularly worrisome?

Gibbs shrugged. Not his problem, even though poorly disguised operations always made him grit his teeth. "Just a guess."

The director's glance was shrewd. "Hmm. Well, since you've…guessed…I'm sure you can see why conferring will be impossible." His tone had the ring of finality.

He'd made up his mind.

Well, Gibbs would simply have to unmake it. "Don't see why," the agent commented easily, folding his hands. "You've gotta have a way of communicating with your men when they're undercover. DiNozzo. Italian name. He pretending to be Mafia?"

Bridenn made no response.

"Then bust him," Gibbs said coolly. "It'll help make the point he's not a cop. You'll get your report, and I'll get mine. Keep him overnight, then send him back out. The move will kill two birds with one stone."

The director's hollowed face registered surprise. "Not a bad plan."

Gibbs almost smiled.

"But it's too risky."

To hell with diplomacy. "Too risky?" Gibbs challenged, rising to his feet himself. "I'll tell you what's risky. What's risky is not following every damn lead you've got. If I can take Macaluso down with my information, you can get your man out a whole hell of a lot sooner. How long you planning to leave him there? Months? Years? Might get Macaluso, but you could lose your Detective, and a lot of people are gonna end up dead. You willing to_ risk_ that?"

Bridenn stood as though frozen, his face registering nothing. Then, slowly—impossibly slowly—he reached his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a radio.

"Keyes. Do you copy?" The director's voice was low, but steady. "When the coast is clear—I repeat, _when the coast is clear_—go to DiNozzo."

There was a pause.

Finally, Bridenn spoke again, voice grim.

"Bring him in."

~*~*~*~*~*~

The drinks and the appetizers might be bad, but Café Nordstrom sure could make a mean sandwich. Tony bit into his with gusto, savoring the combination of salami and _peperoni_.

It wasn't pizza, but it was something.

"Your friend's not that prompt," Tony pointed out finally, breaking the silence. Macaluso, who had been watching a couple argue with a bored expression, turned his head regally. "Haven't we been here almost an hour?"

A smile, equally regal. "Usually he is prompt. But today…." The smile turned sharp. "…today he does not desire to be. Enough of that talk. Florentino, tell me. How is my _Topolina_?"

Tony grinned, and took another bite of his sandwich to cover his unease. Genuine warmth. He hated hearing it, hated the reminder that Maria was so very close to this man. Even more, he hated the idea that the icy Macaluso might actually be capable of affection. A stone cold killer, protective—even loving—of his younger cousin?

It was an unsettling dichotomy.

"Oh, she's doing alright. She's making her special lasagna tonight for dinner. It's our one month anniversary." Tony waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"I did not need that implication," Macaluso said dryly, taking off his sunglasses. Dior. Tony eyed them enviously. "But I suppose it is my own fault for asking. I hope you bought her a present. Maria is most romantic about these sorts of things."

"Flowers." Was this a test? It seemed unlikely, but with the older man, it was hard to know.

Macaluso considered that, frowning slightly. "What flower? Roses?"

"Yellow irises." The man _had_ to be joking. He actually cared?

Macaluso's expression cleared. "Ah. Symbolizing passion. A good choice. I assumed you had bought red roses, but—"

"She doesn't like them," Tony interrupted. Passion. Great. Just what he needed to communicate to a woman whose eyes still glowed when she watched him. And now he'd actually have to bring them to her. "She mentioned it. Too common."

"And Maria is a rare flower." Macaluso inclined his head solicitously, the corners of his mouth lifting. "Well, do not worry. If all goes well, you will be home in time for your special dinner."

That was…good to know. And rather more reassuring that Macaluso was typically inclined to be. Tony gazed at him curiously, trying to imagine what was going through the other man's head.

Macaluso caught his gaze, and smiled crookedly. "Is it so strange I should want you both to be happy together? You do not trust me, Tony. I am sorry to see that. If I have been harsh with you, it is only because I see your potential. Oh, yes. You look surprised, but it is true. I confess I have been very impressed with you over these last few weeks. That tongue of yours," and the mafia man laughed, shaking his head. "Tony, Tony. Out of control. But I like you, Florentino. And so, I have devised a final test."

There was nothing out of the ordinary about the words. But Tony felt his neck break into a cold sweat, his trepidation rising.

He had an idea what this test might entail.

"Bring it on." Tony forced himself to grin, displaying a level of confidence he did not feel—a level of confidence he could barely remember how to feel. His eyes, however, remained locked on the older man's.

"Good," Macaluso breathed, rising to his feet. "Good. Now. Wait here, Florentino. I think I see my friend."

Tony followed his gaze. A man stood at the other end of the café, smoking. Patting the detective on the shoulder, Macaluso wandered over.

The newcomer looked terrified, and suddenly, Tony couldn't watch. Not with what he knew. Not with what he suspected. Feeling sick, he turned towards the street.

A police car pulled to a stop across the way.

Philadelphia PD. Suddenly uneasy, Tony averted his face. It was entirely possible for some low-level officer to have spotted him with Macaluso. If the officer was unaware he was undercover…

He might think Tony had turned informant, and try to intercept him.

The detective's pulse beat wildly as he studied his plate. Part of him—the deepest part of him—knew the scenario was unlikely. Even the greenest cop knew better than to tangle lightly with Mafia, and the fact that Anthony DiNozzo had been investigating the Macaluso cases was common office knowledge. Tony took a deep breath, struggling to bury his paranoia.

Paranoia. That was it. A common reaction to being undercover—_to being undercover too long_, his mind whispered, but he shoved the thought down. Perfectly normal. Everything was fine. There was no need to panic.

Still, Tony was relieved when he recognized Detective Keyes. He, at least, would know precisely why Tony was with Macaluso. And he'd also have enough common sense to leave as soon as he got the signal.

Tony lifted his hand to his head, pretending to tidy his hair. Then—casually, but deliberately—he crossed two fingers. _Back off._

His partner stepped out of the car, closing the door with a soft thud.

Tony raised his hand, again ruffling his hair. He faked a yawn, then crossed his fingers even more pointedly. _Back off!_

Keyes started to cross the street.

Was the man _mad_? Tony cast a panicked look at Macaluso. The mafia man was still absorbed in his conversation. Frantically, he signaled again. What was Keyes playing at? He was going to blow the entire investigation. _Back off. Back off. BACK OFF!_

If he signaled more, he risked blowing his own cover. Tony stopped, and forced himself to take another bite from his sandwich. Chew. Swallow. Maybe Keyes was heading towards someone else. Maybe he hadn't wanted to turn around too abruptly—

Footsteps halted by the table.

Heart sinking, Tony picked up the menu, and pretended to flip through it.

"Antonio Florentino?" The nasal tones were unmistakably Keyes. Tony raised his head, face blank.

"Can I help you, Officer?" He said politely. Disinterestedly.

"You're under arrest," Keyes announced loudly, and Tony felt rather than saw the entire café turn towards him.

"You've got the wrong man," Tony said, smiling disarmingly. "Sorry."

"Is there something about 'you're under arrest' you don't understand?" His partner asked derisively. "Stand up."

Furiously, the detective did as he was told. Turning in place, Tony spotted Macaluso watching through narrowed eyes, displeasure written in every line of his face.

Tony shut his eyes, and wondered at how quickly his world could fall apart.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter Notes: Well. That plan didn't work out so well. Poor Tony. However, things have certainly sped up a bit, I think. :D I hope you enjoyed. Please let me know what you thought! Thanks to each and every one of you who reviewed, put the story on alert, or just stopped by to read my little imaginings.

By the way, Manzanilla olives _are_ the best green olives on the planet. I find it hard to fault Macaluso for that little interaction. ;) (And peperoni is the Italian word for Pepperoncini, in case any one was confused about that.)

**Next Chapter: Gibbs and Tony come face to face. **Not to be cruel, but I may not be able to get it to you promptly. This next week is going to be crazy! But hey. I wasn't sure I was going to be able to get you this update until the middle of this next week, so we'll just have to see, I suppose.


	6. Talking In Circles

"_There are two of us talking in circles_

_One of us who wants to leave_

_In a world created for only us_

_An empty cage that had no key…"_

—_Circle _by Sarah McLachlan

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"Take off the damn handcuffs!"

Raised voices. Gibbs lifted his head from where it had dipped to his chest and considered the office door blearily. Blinking rapidly—he had _not_ been snoozing, simply lost in contemplation—the agent turned his gaze towards Bridenn.

The director was frowning, his wide brow creased in consternation. The noise outside the office continued, a slightly lower but still angry murmur. Bridenn reached out his hand, presumably to press the button that would allow him to speak to the receptionist.

The door flew open before his fingers touched. An officer burst into the room, his reddish hair tousled and his uniform partially un-tucked. Gibbs recognized him immediately. In the case file photo, Keyes had rather more hair, but the resemblance was still plain. "Director Bridenn," the detective began, his words laced with a mixture of deference and resentment, "Please tell this _idiot_ DiNozzo—"

"What the _hell_ happened to following my lead?"

A second man shoved into the room. Unlike Keyes, this officer was young, fit, thin, and nauseatingly good-looking, equipped with the sort of bone structure classic enough to make women drool. He should have been instantly recognizable—and in a way he was. Gibbs was too good at putting pieces together, had read through the Macaluso file too many times, to not realize that this man was Anthony DiNozzo. But reconciling the two images…

That was another task entirely. It was one thing to suspect that the ridiculously cheery case folder photo was deceptive. It was quite another to see the evidence of the discrepancy in the form of a young detective positively blazing with fury. Still dressed in civilian clothes, completely unarmed, DiNozzo nevertheless managed to look twice as intimidating as Keyes as the two faced off.

"Are you trying to get me killed?" Detective DiNozzo's voice was menacing, filled with a dark edge. Reaching back with one hand, he flicked the office door shut, and took another step. The movement brought him eye to eye with his partner. "'Cause if you want me dead, you're doing a bang up job of it."

A red flush stained Keyes' cheeks. Embarrassment, Gibbs wondered, or anger?

Both, probably.

Keyes pulled himself up to his full height. He was slightly taller than DiNozzo, this way, and certainly bulkier. His younger partner, however, did not back up. "I was _under orders_, you dumbass—"

Anger, then.

"Gentlemen!"

Gibbs would hand it to him; Bridenn might look as dried out as a dying plant, but he _could_ move fast. In a second he was next to the arguing men, laying a hand on each of their shoulders.

Instantly DiNozzo jerked away from the touch, keeping his attention fixed firmly on his partner. "To blow me off? I gave you five—_effing_—signals—"

By the end of the speech, his voice was rising ominously; just as loudly, Keyes interrupted him. "Do you want another reprimand?" His partner asked nastily. "I'm more than entitled to arrest you, _kid_. It's not like you haven't done something to deserve it, is it? Drug trafficking is still illegal, last I checked. Seems to me you're forgetting where the line falls. Getting awfully fond of working with Macaluso, aren't we? You two—"

He never finished his sentence. DiNozzo's fist came flying out of nowhere, burying itself in his partner's eye. Keyes stumbled backward, letting out a yell of pain, and charged forward.

Gibbs leapt to his feet automatically, years of marine training directing his movement. In one swift movement he pinned Keyes's arms; in another, Gibbs had him in a headlock. The detective grunted, resisting. The agent tightened his grip, grinning savagely, and finally Keyes relaxed.

Only then did Gibbs release him.

Keyes stumbled, cursing. A few feet away, Bridenn had DiNozzo by the arm, whispering rapidly into his ear. The young detective's eyes flashed, but this time he didn't twist out of Bridenn's hold; after a moment he slumped, looking oddly defeated.

The director let go, patting DiNozzo on the back—then turned on the other detective. "Keyes, come with me," Bridenn snapped, yanking open the door. Ushering the other man through, he pinned Gibbs with a look that might have been intended as a warning.

Undaunted—as someone who specialized in _looks_, it was hard to find Bridenn's version all that impressive—Gibbs sat back down, and turned his attention to more important matters.

DiNozzo was still standing, breathing heavily. Even from this distance, Gibbs could see that his slim body was taut, his jaw set. Abruptly, the young man strode over to a third chair, and sank into it, clutching his hair with both hands.

"Bad day?" Gibbs asked levelly.

DiNozzo actually flinched. He raised his head, regarding Gibbs warily. "Forgot you were there."

"Been here the whole time."

The comment was calm, but DiNozzo still winced. "Right," the detective muttered. "About that…sorry. I don't make a habit of punching my partner, just so you know." DiNozzo smiled brightly, and stretched out a casual leg. "There were…extenuating circumstances. Really doesn't make much sense out of context, you understand."

His breezy manner was disarming, but Gibbs wasn't fooled. The young man's eyes were still dark, glittering with rage or something equally potent. Furthermore, the words were too glib for comfort—though whether the glibness was merely a byproduct of a too-clever tongue, or indicative of something darker, it was hard to say.

DiNozzo was watching him. Waiting for a response. An acceptance of his excuse, perhaps. But Gibbs had no absolution to give him. If Keyes had truly ignored DiNozzo's signals, then he was one hell of a lousy partner, and a punch had been the least he deserved. But if the Italian was not what he seemed, and Keyes had known it…

Trying to blow DiNozzo's cover might be justified, at that.

There were simply too many variables to call it.

The silence stretched awkwardly. The two men considered each other, Gibbs' gaze inscrutable and DiNozzo's searching. Gibbs noted with interest that the young detective held nothing back in his appraisal, eyes lingering on Gibbs' face, visitor badge, gun, and all the places—ankle, hip, forearm—where weapons were frequently concealed.

"So. Tibbs, is it?" The detective spoke up finally. Boldly. "How about an introduction?"

"Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS," Gibbs said shortly, putting extra force on the correction. DiNozzo's eyebrows rose dramatically.

Rather melodramatically, in fact.

"Your badge says Tibbs."

"Mix up at the desk," Gibbs answered vaguely. When DiNozzo grinned, looking just a little bit too amused, he wished he'd chosen a different excuse—though what precisely was so funny, he wasn't sure. "Your friend Kraut had a misprinted badge."

DiNozzo sat bolt upright, his composure dissolving in a flash. "How do you know we're friends?" Tony demanded, voice aggressive.

It was Gibbs' turn to lift his eyebrows. That was…a strong reaction, at best. The kid didn't miss a beat, he'd give him that. But there was something disconcerting in the intensity of the response. "He mentioned it."

"You were asking for me?" DiNozzo's eyes glinted. "Because I have trouble believing he'd just blurt that out."

That was a matter of interpretation, but if the detective thought his friend was the pinnacle of discretion, he was mistaken. "Needed to talk to you," Gibbs conceded easily. "About a case of yours that's connected to one of mine."

DiNozzo stiffened. "Keyes is the lead detective. Why not talk to him?"

A reasonable question, but one easily diffused. "I'm going to."

To his surprise, DiNozzo's posture only relaxed marginally, though his words immediately grew conciliatory. "Right then. So. NCIS. Naval Criminal Investigative System, right?"

"Services," Gibbs corrected, impressed in spite of himself. DC was reasonably far from land bound Philly, and a great deal farther away from Peoria. "Not system."

"Gotcha." For a fleeting second, DiNozzo looked abashed. "And what case are you interested in, Special Agent…Bibbs?"

The hesitation over the name was marked, and if Gibbs hadn't been a suspicious man, he might have put it down to genuine confusion. Certainly the detective's face, oh-so-apologetic, was the picture of innocence. But Gibbs hadn't been born yesterday.

And this wasn't the first young idiot to try to get under his skin.

The ensuing glare was of the variety that made even Abby backtrack. DiNozzo actually gaped, freezing in the act of adjusting his suit jacket. After a very long moment, the detective relaxed, still looking rather shell-shocked. "Geez. Have you got a permit to carry that thing, Special Agent Gibbs? I'm willing to bet that face could kill. Next time you find a body down there in DC, you might want to add Death by Glower to the list of potential causes of death—"

Gibbs hid a sudden grin—whatever else might be true about him, the kid had guts. "I've got a body that fits the MO of some of your open cases. Petty Officer Johnny Chaplin. Tortured to death. Knife wounds, mostly. From the neck up, there were no wounds—"

"—and from the shoulders down, he's been shredded." DiNozzo's voice, a minute ago so annoyingly energetic, was suddenly quiet. Deadened. Gibbs watched him, hawkeyed, for any sign of a reaction in keeping with a closet killer.

But all he saw was exhaustion.

DiNozzo rubbed his face, breathing a sigh. With his face in repose, the deep shadows ringing his eyes were glaringly apparent. In spite of himself, Gibbs felt a prickle of concern—just how long had the detective been undercover? He looked…worn. Frayed.

Dangerously so.

"I'll give you the case files," DiNozzo assured him, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "It's all there. Where and when did you find the body? If it was in the District, it might not be—"

He'd already read the case files, though of course the detective wouldn't know that. "November sixteenth. Baltimore. I've got an eyewitness that places your suspect Macaluso at the place Chaplin was dumped."

The effect of the last comment was instantaneous. "An _eyewitness_?" DiNozzo asked incredulously, snapping to attention. Every trace of fatigue disappeared as quickly as it had come. "Are you serious? We could take Macaluso down with that—"

"Refuses to testify."

DiNozzo deflated. "Of course he does," the young man muttered, sounding spent. "Don't they all?"

Gibbs said nothing, flashing back to a memory of someone who had once agreed to testify, and paid dearly for it. Grief surged, still strong after all these years, and with it a formless sort of rage—at Brakel, whose fear kept his family safe, when Shannon had been so brave and was dead because of it; and at DiNozzo, for inadvertently reminding him.

"Well, Macaluso does have some reason to be in Baltimore, at any rate," the detective said dully, unaware of Gibbs' inner turmoil. "Any idea what the motive would be? Does your marine have mafia connections?"

"Hoping you could tell me that," Gibbs countered harshly. "You're the one undercover with Macaluso."

The moment the words passed his lips, he knew they were a mistake. The young man was on edge enough already. Cultivating further distrust would get Gibbs nowhere. But it was too late. Instantly, DiNozzo's face emptied of expression, his eyes communicating nothing but mild surprise.

"Undercover…? No, no. Sorry, you've got the wrong idea. I have been working an op, but…" The detective shrugged, smiling charmingly. "The details are classified. You understand."

A well-executed lie—not that Gibbs had expected anything less. Effective undercover operatives were nothing if not naturally deceptive. All the same, the response was far from useless. That expression, a shade too inscrutable…Gibbs would watch for that. If that was DiNozzo's tell…

The next time he lied, Gibbs would know.

"Your Director wants you to work with me."

"And I'm happy to supply you with anything you need," DiNozzo responded promptly, that obnoxiously dazzling grin still firmly planted. "I'm a helpful guy. In fact, we're a helpful police department. I think we've even got a plaque somewhere to prove it—"

Gibbs restrained himself from a headslap with extreme difficulty. There was a stubborn set to DiNozzo's clean-shaven jaw, even as he rambled, that hinted he was more than capable of holding his own in a waiting game. He'd crumble eventually, of course—no one could out-stubborn Gibbs—but it might take a while.

Too long.

They were wasting time.

And damned if DiNozzo didn't look like he was enjoying himself.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The world was on autopilot.

"—which reminds me of a movie," Tony continued mechanically, the familiar spiel rolling off his tongue almost without his consent. "Goldfinger. 1964. Great film. James Bond, played by Sean Connery—"

Even he wasn't sure how they'd moved from plaques to James Bond, but it made no difference. The prattle had achieved its purpose more effectively than he'd even hoped.

Tony didn't think he'd ever seen anyone looking so pissed off in his life.

Special Agent Gibbs was staring at him, blue eyes like chips of ice in his weathered face. His silver brows were just slightly creased, his eyes just barely narrowed; and yet, somehow, he still looked absolutely furious.

It was unnerving. Silence—Tony had expected that. But complete and utter _stillness?_ Gibbs hadn't even _blinked_ since the beginning of the detective's monologue. The man wasn't human.

That was it. Tony latched onto the idea with something like relief. Gibbs was something else—a terminator like Schwarzenegger, maybe. Dangerous. Relentless. And completely, utterly, socially inept.

It would explain a lot.

A bubble of laughter built in Tony's throat. Somehow, the thought was a heck of a lot funnier than it had the right to be. To his horror, his lips began twitching. Gibbs' eyes narrowed menacingly, which only made it worse. Tony swallowed, hard, struggling to contain his rising mirth. But he was losing the battle—

The office door swung open, revealing Bridenn.

Tony nearly collapsed with relief as the federal agent's gaze swung away from him. The ridiculous urge to laugh disintegrated as quickly as it had come. What was the _matter _with him?

But that was a question he really didn't want to answer, even to himself.

"Detective DiNozzo, this is Special Agent Tibbs, NCIS," Bridenn announced formally, gaze tracking between the two of them as though he suspected they'd had some sort of altercation. Neither responded, though Gibbs' mouth twisted sourly. Tony waited, expectant, for the correction, but nothing came.

So Gibbs didn't want to correct the director? A potentially strategic move, if the agent was trying to get in Bridenn's good graces, but slightly odd all the same. Gibbs certainly hadn't bothered with such stratagems when talking to Tony. And why was that, Tony wondered, feeling suddenly rather irked. Because he didn't think a lowly detective would be able to cause him any trouble?

If so, Tony could show him a thing or two. The detective smiled to himself wickedly, contemplating the possibilities of that. After weeks of submitting—albeit slowly—to everything Macaluso asked of him, the prospect of having someone he was absolutely, perfectly free to annoy out of their minds was…refreshing. And yet…the agent didn't deserve that. He might be cold and unyielding—and more than a little creepy—but Gibbs was only trying to close a case for a murdered marine.

The anger drained away, replaced by bleakness. It was stupid of him to have wanted respect, anyway. It wasn't as though he'd done anything worthy of it, lashing out like a petulant child who'd been denied a sweet. Losing his temper.

Hitting Keyes.

Tony closed his eyes in horror, barely registering that Bridenn was still speaking. What had he been _thinking_? So Keyes had acted stupidly—and Tony was going to have to do some serious damage control with Macaluso. But punching the lead detective…_that_ was stupid to the point of suicidal.

Tony cringed in memory, picturing the look of pure loathing on Keyes' face as the man was led away. When the undercover mission was over, Tony was dead meat.

If the mission itself didn't kill him. But Keyes would probably find a way to kill him again, regardless. Then he'd been deader than dead. Doubly dead. It could be his catch phrase. _Doubly Dead DiNozzo._ If nothing else, they could put it on his tombstone, but if he got lucky they'd use it in his movie—if anyone ever got around to making a movie of his life.

Of course, so far it made for pretty crappy viewing.

"—so give Special Agent Gibbs everything you've got on Macaluso, unless it directly jeopardizes Operation Hawkeye."

Startled, Tony jerked to awareness. _ Everything_. Had he really just heard that? Gibbs was smirking, drat him, in a way that was just a little bit too knowing for Tony's preferences. Had already known about Operation Hawkeye? If so, the agent had just caught Tony making a bald-faced lie.

Inwardly, the Italian winced. That wasn't great. It had been a calculated gamble, banking on the fact that Navy cops from DC had no business knowing he was undercover. And how the hell _did_ Gibbs know so much, anyway? The man was uncanny.

It was actually kind of impressive. All the same…

"Yes, sir," Tony answered reluctantly, feeling as though he'd be perfectly happy if he never had to follow another order again. Gibbs' eyes swung to meet his once more, the expression piercing.

Uncomfortably so.

Tony would have to be on his guard, that was all. If he didn't miss his guess, the special agent would make one hell of a dangerous enemy.

And he already had enough of those to last a lifetime.

Chapter Notes: Here we are, at long last…and our heroes are off to a rocky start. :D Let me know what you think of their meeting!

Everyone, thank you so much for your absolutely incredible reviews last chapter. I can't express how much I appreciated them. I'm only sorry I haven't had a chance to reply to them individually. And…WOW! Thirty favorites and _over one-hundred_ alerts? Every last one of you rocks. :D

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Next chapter: More drama as Tony struggles to keep his equilibrium in a very, very bad day, and Gibbs tries to reconcile his impressions with his preconceived notions…which might just be harder than it sounds.


	7. The Subtle Ways

"_I think you worried for me then_

_The subtle ways that I'd give in…"_

—_Ice _by Sarah McLachlan

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He'd won.

"—so give Special Agent Gibbs everything you've got on Macaluso, unless it directly jeopardizes Operation Hawkeye."

Bridenn's words were clipped, but firm—the response of a man reluctant but convinced despite himself—and Gibbs couldn't suppress a smile of satisfaction. For all DiNozzo was good at misdirection, he couldn't ignore a direct order. The detective was well and truly trapped.

And none of his damned chatter would be enough to finagle himself out of this one.

Still smirking to himself, Gibbs listened with just a shade too much pleasure for the squawk of outrage sure to follow. From DiNozzo's perspective, it probably looked like he'd been sold out by his superior. Hell, Gibbs would probably feel the same way, had he been the one undercover—Bridenn might technically be in charge, but an op was a joint process. It would be…maddening, at best, to discover that someone else had been read into the operation without your consultation.

There was a split second of silence. Then—Gibbs waited, expectant, for the explosion—

"Yes, sir."

The reply was without heat. Startled, Gibbs whipped his head around. DiNozzo sat, unmoving in his well-crafted suit. Eyes averted slightly, hands folded, the detective was resignation itself. Obedience, even; and that was a contrast so surreal that the special agent couldn't believe his eyes.

It made no sense.

The volatile—even obnoxious—young man of a few minutes ago, buckling without protest? It was a ploy. Had to be. DiNozzo was no fool; more, he was wary to the point of open distrust. No matter what his motives, there was no reason for him to acquiesce so utterly to Gibbs' presence.

Unless he simply trusted Bridenn more than he trusted himself. But why would he? The man had just given an order that put DiNozzo's operation at risk. Admittedly, from what Gibbs could gather, Keyes had acted out of order, but responsibility was not always so clear cut. Furthermore, if Gibbs had garnered anything from the apparent hodgepodge of personalities DiNozzo had presented during their interview, it was that the detective wasn't the type to trust blindly.

It still didn't add up. He didn't even need his gut to tell there was more to this story, but what was he missing? It was impossible to say.

The door pulled shut behind Bridenn, but Gibbs barely noticed, so lost was he in his contemplations. DiNozzo, however, straightened up with an expression almost like relief. Leaning forward, the detective met Gibbs' eyes.

The special agent braced himself for another onslaught of chatter, but once again DiNozzo surprised him.

"Have you got a photo of your victim, Special Agent Gibbs?"

Shrugging, Gibbs reached into his jacket, and extracted the file. Reaching across the distance, he held it out until DiNozzo's fingers grasped it. Smooth hands, only slightly callused, with nails tidily maintained. A man who cared about his appearance, then, if the clothing and hair hadn't already made that abundantly obvious.

DiNozzo flipped the folder open one-handed, with a smoothness that hinted at long practice, and began to riffle through the pages. Abruptly, his expression grew intent. Carefully, the detective lifted out the case photos of Chaplin, holding them by the edges. In spite of himself, Gibbs found himself tensing as he waited for the verdict—was this the connection he needed?

DiNozzo lowered the photos, setting them gently within the confines of the folder, and shook his head. "Never met him."

The tone was regretful, even a little crestfallen. Still, a wave of frustration, like fury, flooded through Gibbs. Regrets couldn't solve a case. And neither could he, special agent or not, if he couldn't find a lead that damn well led somewhere.

The silence stretched.

"It doesn't fit." DiNozzo said abruptly, gripping the file with clenched hands. He sounded about as vexed as Gibbs felt. "Macaluso doesn't kill people unconnected to the Mafia, especially not like this. Guy might be as sick as Anthony Hopkins in _The Silence of the Lambs_, but he keeps his hands clean. And Baltimore's not his killing ground. If your man had connections, maybe I could overlook it. But…" DiNozzo shrugged, a helpless gesture.

"Knife's a match," Gibbs informed him flatly. "Custom blade."

DiNozzo stared. "That doesn't make sense."

A direct echo of Gibbs' earlier thoughts. The detective leaned forward, running his fingers haphazardly through his hair. For a moment, a steady tick-tick-ticking, emanating from the chrome-edged clock on the wall, was the only audible sound.

"Wait." The word was barely more than a breath, but Gibbs still turned immediately.

DiNozzo looked electrified. His green eyes were wide, and his hair now wildly rumpled, but the detective paid the latter no heed as he rose to his feet. "That's it," the young man repeated, a wondering note creeping into his tone. "_That's it_. We're looking at this all wrong." DiNozzo dropped the folder onto the chair, the movement almost contemptuous. "Instead of saying it's not Macaluso because it doesn't fit his MO, we should ask _why_ it's different."

If that had only just occurred to the kid, he wasn't half of good of an investigator as he thought he was. Gibbs raised an eyebrow, intending to squelch this burst of misplaced enthusiasm, but DiNozzo shook his head feverishly. "Hear me out. Why would Macaluso murder someone unconnected to him, in a city where he never kills anyone? The man plans everything, and he doesn't do anything without a point. Unless—_unless_," the detective repeated, sounding almost gleeful, "Something catches him by surprise. _What if Chaplin stumbled across something he wasn't supposed to?_"

DiNozzo was actually grinning now, certain he'd nailed it. Gibbs eyed him thoughtfully—the kid might be on to something, but there was a hole in the logic, a chasm yawning enough to derail the entire theory.

"Got an idea what that would be, Detective?"

If Gibbs had expected DiNozzo to wilt, he would have been disappointed. As he'd anticipated nothing of the sort, he merely watched with interest as the detective began to pace.

"Macaluso goes to Baltimore every few weeks. From the intel we've got, we don't have any proof that he's up to anything shady. Ninety percent of the time he visits his little business and does his normal Mafia-boss-playing-nice kind of things, like going to lunch with people who are_ technically_ legal, but really are rotten to the core. But every now and then, he takes a time out from his nice little schedule and," DiNozzo snapped both fingers, grinning like an idiot, "Vanishes completely."

The smile dropped abruptly, leaving the young man's face grim. "So, of course, we know he's up to something. The question is what. If we look where your dead guy disappeared from, it could give us an idea where he might have run into Macaluso. Then we might be able to figure out what Macaluso's hiding."

It was a good theory. Clever, even, for taking into account that the final resting place of the body was probably far less useful than where Chaplin had first gone off the radar. But that didn't make it true. Furthermore, it might help to bring down Macaluso, but as far as Chaplin was concerned…

"Not gonna get a jury to convict on a motive like that."

DiNozzo's eyes flashed. "Want to bet?" He challenged. "If we find proof—"

"Without a murder weapon," Gibbs stated coldly. "That shaky of a motive, without a murder weapon? No jury's going to buy it, unless you find something pretty damn spectacular."

"Then we'll find something pretty damn spectacular," DiNozzo retorted, clenching his jaw. By now he was breathing heavily, and looked angry—far angrier, in fact, then the situation seemed to call for.

Suspicion resurged in Gibbs' mind. There was something else going on here, and what was at the source he could only guess. For all DiNozzo's behavior seemed almost bipolar in its swings, it was becoming increasingly hard to swallow that this passionate young man was anything other than a devoted cop. But Gibbs knew he could be wrong—had been before, if his ex-wives had any say in the matter. Even if he wasn't, what of it? The situation—and DiNozzo's, Keyes, and Bridenn's interactions—felt completely off. It was his duty as an investigator to figure out why.

And if that meant fighting dirty, so be it.

DiNozzo had yet to relax. Gibbs stole a surreptitious glance at him, noting the way the kid sat, shoulders stiff, slightly hunched. Almost a defensive posture, but combative too.

He was expecting a fight. And if the exhausted set to his features was any indication of his fortitude in battle, Gibbs would win. But DiNozzo had surprised him before. It would be better—easier—to slip in under his defenses. If the detective expected conflict…

Then Gibbs would find another way in.

"Not a bad theory, though," the special agent commented, leaning back casually, and exhaling a sigh.

DiNozzo's posture faltered. His eyes flicked towards the older man, and their depths registered surprise. Slowly, the young man straightened, and let his shoulders relax against his own armchair. "I've had worse ones, I guess."

A green interrogator would have thought the battle won. Gibbs knew better. The relaxation was mere mimicry of Gibbs' posture—a common habit for those who worked undercover, where knowing how to fit in was often the difference between success and failure. It meant nothing.

The surprise, though—that had been real. "You're kinda young to be working the Macaluso op," Gibbs commented, keeping his tone easy.

"Yeah, well, if we all waited until your age, half of us would be in nursing homes first," DiNozzo said dryly. "I fit the job. That's all that matters."

Gibbs' fingers itched to deliver a headslap for that first comment, but he restrained himself. Barely. "Must be pretty good at your job. Two years in Peoria, only a year here. Yet you've taken a lot of cases already."

Almost imperceptibly, DiNozzo stiffened, but his voice was as unconcerned as Gibbs' own. "We've taken a lot, yeah."

"Most of them having to do with Macaluso," the special agent pointed out. "That's a lot of work. Lot of bodies tied to him recently."

"You're telling me," DiNozzo said bleakly. "The man's a killing machine."

"Yeah. Yeah, he is. But lately, a lot more so. Got any idea why that is?" The detective didn't see it yet; the way Gibbs was leading him along, building up for the final question. That was only to the good. Whatever the kid's reaction, surprise would only amplify the honesty of it.

"He murders people who he thinks betray him. Maybe his Mafia doesn't like him so much anymore. You know, some people don't care for the idea they'll be tortured to death if they mess up. Or maybe he's getting paranoid. Kind of hard to say."

"Yeah, you might be right," Gibbs agreed. "But that's not what I thought of. See, what I find interesting is precisely when he seems to get bolder. Year after year, he kills around the same number of victims. Then all of the sudden, a year ago, he decides—hey, why stop there. The strange thing is, he's a Mafia boss. He's got lots to do. But last year, he chooses to make murdering a career choice.

"Now, a year ago, you moved here from Peoria. They put you with Keyes. And they give you a Mafia case. They read you in on Macaluso. And suddenly…suddenly, there are a lot more bodies. Bit of a strange coincidence."

The special agent paused, letting the silence build. DiNozzo's face was as strained as it had been a moment ago. His response, when it came, was formal.

"If you're suggesting that Keyes and I don't intimidate Macaluso much, you're probably right. But if your point is that I'm too incompetent to take down Macaluso because I couldn't put him behind bars during the cases, Special Agent Gibbs, I'd like to see you give it a go. Are we done here?"

"I'm suggesting," Gibbs said icily, "That you knew Macaluso's case inside and out. You knew the way he did things. Who he killed. The way he killed. And most of all?"

The agent leaned forward. DiNozzo stared at him, looking almost mesmerized by the words.

"Most of all," and Gibbs' voice was quiet, "Most of all, the way he got away with it."

For a very long moment, DiNozzo continued to stare, gaze uncomprehending. Then—his face began to quiver. His breathing hitched.

And Detective DiNozzo burst into laughter.

:::::::::::::::::::::

Tony thought his lungs would give out.

Great whooping laughs wrenched their way out of his chest. It was hard to breath, impossible to get enough oxygen, but he couldn't stop. Tony clutched weakly at his chair, trembling helplessly with the force of his mirth. His stomach muscles clenched painfully, but his body showed no signs of halting.

Tony wasn't entirely sure why he was laughing, anyway. Certainly there was nothing remotely funny about the accusation. But irony…oh, there was plenty of irony. The situation was so laden with it, in fact, that Tony could barely believe his ears. It seemed as though all his problems in Philly boiled down to this—that Sergeant Watson in his infinite wisdom had decided the young cop from Peoria was perfect for Hawkeye. That the one situation in which Tony was entirely blameless should be the one to haunt him…well, maybe God had a sense of humor, after all. A crappy sense of humor, sure. But what more could you expect from an old bearded guy?

The speed at which his thoughts were wandering was actually kind of alarming. Maybe it had to do with oxygen deprivation. If so, he should probably try to stop laughing, Tony realized vaguely. Might be a good idea, though it would be interesting to see whether his skin really did turn blue when he ran out of air.

Now that was definitely an alarming thought to be having. Tony gasped for breath, determined to get himself under control, and finally his laughter died, ending in an odd, choking sort of gurgle. Eyes streaming, the detective looked up, only to encounter a sight as disconcerting as anything he'd seen today.

Special Agent Gibbs was gazing at him, his chilly blue eyes narrowed in what looked very much like concern.

The strange impression passed almost immediately, much to Tony's relief. If anyone offered him sympathy right now, he was very much afraid he'd either pop them in the face or break apart. He'd done the first already, and he really couldn't afford the indulgence of the second—not until he figured out how to salvage what remained of his tattered undercover ID and manufacture an explanation that Macaluso would accept. At the moment, he was fresh out of ideas.

Ones that didn't involve a particularly painful price, anyway.

"Alright there, Detective DiNozzo?" Gibbs' very dry voice broke the through the quiet.

Battered as he felt, Tony was determined to give _that_ the answer it deserved. "Oh, yeah. Doing great. I just love being accused of being a mass murderer, thanks. Between you and my partner, who, you know, tried his best to blow my only chance to arrest the _real_ murderer, it's been a jolly good day. Thanks for asking."

"Had to see your reaction," Gibbs replied coolly. He didn't shrug, but he might as well have—the agent was clearly utterly unbothered by Tony's sarcasm.

"Oh, well, that's nice. Hope it was to your satisfaction," the detective challenged. "So, what's the consensus? Still think I'm a killer? Because if you need evidence against that notion, I've got enough for the both of us—"

"Didn't think you were." Gibbs' interjection was curiously calming, for all he still hadn't apologized. "Just had to be sure."

"And wild peals of laughter are enough to decide that for you?" The query was incredulous.

That time, Gibbs really did shrug.

Tony gave up.

"Wish we all could make up our minds so easily," Tony said sourly, handing the older man the case file. "Anything else I could help you with? Maybe you want to accuse me of treason before you go?"

"Not going anywhere." As if to demonstrate his point, Gibbs placed the folder firmly back in Tony's hands. "I leave when I find justice for my marine. Not before."

The man had enough determination for an army. "Got a plan for that?" Tony asked, honestly curious. "If so, I'd be happy to hear it."

"We work together." Gibbs' voice was rough, but firm. "You help me. I help you. We find a way. That good enough for you?"

It felt almost like a test, for all it was technically phrased as a request. Not a test as Macaluso understood the term, but a test all the same. A measuring, of sorts, though Tony didn't know on what basis Gibbs was qualified to judge him. Something in Tony's insides twisted. It hardly mattered.

Qualified or not, Gibbs could only find him wanting.

Reluctantly, Tony lifted his eyes to meet the older man's. They assessed him steadily—calmly. Probing for something. And maybe Tony didn't possess what Gibbs wanted to find, but he'd be damned if he sat here like a child awaiting judgment. He straightened, holding the agent's gaze with one every bit as intense.

Measuring in turn.

With that action, something shifted between them. Inexplicably, a smile hovered over the silver-haired agent's lips. And maybe it was born of condescension.

But Tony thought it just might be approval.

The thought bolstered him. Smiling in turn, the detective extended a hand. "Sounds good to me."

Agent Gibbs grasped it, his hold firm.

And, somehow, Tony felt as though he'd crossed a point of no return.

:::::::::::::::::::::

Chapter Notes: And here we are, **finally.** Goodness gracious. And it was a grueling chapter to write, let me tell you. Thank you all so much for your patience—I love my readers. Some poor authors get flamed if they take too long to update. You guys? You just give me marvelously encouraging reviews that remind me why struggling to fit writing time into my schedule is worth it!

Please let me know what you think. :) Chapter 8 coming up as soon as I can manage it—over the weekend, if at all possible. If you're ever wondering how a chapter is coming along, I do post status updates on my profile page periodically.

A disclaimer: In case anyone's offended, I don't know (or care) what Tony's religious views are, but I can only figure that regardless of what he believes, a certain amount if flippancy is to be expected. This is, after all, DiNozzo. I'm personally quite spiritual, so please don't assume I agree with Tony's suffocation-induced babbling. Lol.


	8. Dark Detours

Chapter warnings: Rated T for dark themes and language.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"_You've been down the dark detours; you have seen most of it all,_

_ Crashed into a million faces, but never listened to them talk_

_ You've got so much on your mind right now; it doesn't even help to try_

_ To solve it all…" _

—_Rise to the Occasion_ by Kurt Nilsen (Chapter Title: Dark Detours.)

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

For all he'd made the process ten times more difficult than it needed to be, DiNozzo did seem to have a sense of when to give up the fight.

Sort of.

"—and here are the evidence lockers," DiNozzo said briskly, swinging the door open wide to admit them both. The movement carried the hint of a flourish—just enough to be noticeable without being enough to pin down as mockery. Gibbs ignored it. It made no difference. The cases were his to inspect, his to scrutinize, and DiNozzo was actually—inconceivably—cooperating. If the detective wanted to fight back against the loss of control with insolence, let him. No one liked losing.

And Gibbs knew how difficult it was to share a case you'd poured your heart into.

But this was more than that.

DiNozzo twisted the key in the lock, darting a quick look over both shoulders. The chilly evidence garage was echoingly empty, but Gibbs resisted the urge to copy the gesture with difficulty. Even in the high security garage, where it was doubtful even a small army of men with machine guns would have been able to penetrate, the detective's paranoia was contagious.

DiNozzo reached into his pocket, unearthing another set of keys—to the individual lockers, this time. Selecting a shiny silver one, the detective began unlocking the drawers.

Gibbs moved, soundlessly, to stand at the detective's elbow. After all of DiNozzo's chatter, silence was not only golden, but a very limited commodity. The momentary respite was to be treasured—by now, he knew better than to think it would last.

He didn't know how Keyes could stand it. The thought of working with that ceaseless prattle was enough to set his teeth on edge. Gibbs had no idea how one could focus when faced with that—it was like being poked repeatedly with a pencil. And yet, DiNozzo certainly could focus, talking or otherwise. Today's interrogation had proved that multifold. The detective might be exasperating, but he knew how to play the game.

It was more than Gibbs could say for Blackadder.

"Here's the evidence for the most recent cases," the detective said carelessly, turning towards Gibbs. "Where do—Goddamnit," DiNozzo swore, stepping backwards so forcefully he hit the lockers. "Don't you make _noise_?"

An intense reaction, to say the least. Gibbs regarded the younger man thoughtfully, taking in the flushed cheeks, the furiously snapping eyes. "Sometimes," the agent conceded. "What've we got, detective?"

Breathing heavily—still scowling, but somewhat derailed by the agent's composure—DiNozzo motioned at the table. The movement was swift, but Gibbs's eagle eye caught the still-trembling fingers. "This is from the most recent case."

Gibbs picked up the closest item, a peach-tinted blouse with tears outlined in familiar shade of red-tinted brown.

Dried blood.

"Knife wounds." The young man's voice was flat as he riffled through the rest of the plastic bags. "Far as we could tell, those were the first wounds, but judging by the state of the body, later they took her shirt off."

Gibbs didn't like what that suggested, and as he picked up the next item, a mangled and rust-red spattered bra, he liked it even less. "Rape?"

To his relief, DiNozzo shook his head. The quiet words were less comforting. "He probably threatened it, but no. Macaluso likes to inspire fear, but he's not sexually motivated. He likes his knives and…other things."

Attention caught by the odd tone, Gibbs looked up from his inspection of the victim's wallet.

DiNozzo was gripping his lower arm with a white-knuckled hand.

Gibbs dropped his gaze to the table, feeling sickness surge in his gut. He was far too honest with himself to ignore the implications of that, though DiNozzo probably didn't even know what he'd just revealed.

It wasn't even surprising. No one entered a criminal organization without a price. Some prices were bloodier than others—and some were paid by innocents instead of by the criminals themselves.

But DiNozzo…DiNozzo was mouthy. And brash, and too damned clever for his own good. Even Gibbs could see that, and they'd barely even met. If Macaluso's trust had a price, the cost would fall on DiNozzo's shoulders.

He wasn't sure why the thought bothered him so much.

"All of your bodies. They've been informants," Gibbs pointed out, the words more a statement then a question.

"Most of them have been," DiNozzo corrected, riffling through more evidence bags. "Two were undercover police officers. Some of them were just Mafia members who got on Macaluso's bad side. It's not too hard to do. Why?"

There hadn't been a why—or rather, not one Gibbs had ever intended to vocalize. But DiNozzo's distracted inquiry was giving him an opening that was hard to resist. "Sounds like Macaluso's pretty good at his job."

The detective let out a long, low groan. "I can't take it any more," DiNozzo muttered in a long suffering voice, finally turning to face him. "You're killing me. It's Macaluso. _Mah-cah-loos-o_, got it? Not _Ma-caw-luh-so_. Please, in the name of all that's holy, stop saying it like that. My eardrums are going to burst. God. You're as bad as Keyes."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows. Either DiNozzo had an extremely acute ear for language, or the detective was shrewd enough to see where this topic was heading. Well, let him avoid it for the moment. "You don't get along with your partner."

This time, DiNozzo's bark of laughter was not unexpected. "Now, what would make you say that? The fact that I just, you know, decked him? Or would it be because he nearly blew my cover ID? No, we're best buds. We have slumber parties on the weekend and buy each other flowers, just because."

Smiling cheekily, the young man returned to his work—but not before tossing Gibbs a glance that fell on the scornful side of disbelieving.

An _I-know-what-you're-doing _look.

Fighting an unexpected urge to grin, Gibbs returned his own attention to the evidence.

For now.

He'd always liked a challenge.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

One day, Tony was going to hunt down the person who invented deadlines, and drag them off to jail in handcuffs.

Groaning, the detective buried his face in his hands, and tried to block out the clock's incessant noise.

_Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._

Weren't clocks supposed to _tock_, too? He'd never been much of a reader, but he remembered that, at least, from his early forays into picture books. It was a wonder the clockmaker hadn't gone mad, listening to the repetitive noise. Maybe he had. Or maybe he'd gone mad _first_, and his madness had led him to construct this deviant of a clock to madden the rest of the world.

If so, the plan was succeeding.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

Sighing gustily—pointedly, just in case anyone was listening—Tony surveyed the stark interior of interrogation without interest. Steel-gray walls. The impenetrable darkness of the window. It looked the same as every other day he'd been down here. Except today, he wasn't questioning anyone.

Today, he was hiding.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

Grimacing, Tony peered through his fingers at the white, numbered face. Ten after seven. High time for Special Agent Gibbs to be back, and far past high time for dinner.

As if on cue, his stomach rumbled. Right now, he'd kill for a pizza—bubbling hot tomato sauce sprinkled with basil, oozing piles of cheese, crispy circles of pepperoni dripping oil—

_Stop._

Someone _would_ bring him dinner, eventually. Hopefully. It might not be pizza—might be nothing more than stale vending machine chips, depending on how much the deliverer disliked him—but it would be food. In any case, it was his own choice to stay down here in this lousy icebox, pretending he actually _was_ under arrest.

It was all about appearances. And that was the only reason Tony was here, instead of accompanying Gibbs to the long-term evidence storage to look for further links between their cases.

Not that Tony thought the agent would do a bad job. Far from it. Gibbs was competence itself—that much was blatantly obvious. But if Gibbs had a question, wanted a first hand account of a conversation with a witness…Tony was the man for the job. Keyes had checked out from the investigation months ago, long before Julia Municello's death.

Tony winced involuntarily at that remembrance. Time and distance had softened the grief, but nothing could banish the horror. The bloodstained clothes had brought it all back into gruesome focus. He would have nightmares tonight, for certain.

At least he wouldn't upset Maria with them.

Maria. Damn. Their supposed anniversary. And the yellow irises he'd never actually bought. But she would understand. She was always—_well, almost always,_ Tony thought wryly—understanding. And this was one hell of an excuse.

Except where Macaluso was concerned.

Panic, overwhelming in its intensity, swept through him. Tony swallowed hard, and forced himself to breath. It was curiously difficult, for all he'd always had strong lungs. A few dark spots winked in front of his eyes, but Tony mastered himself before they had a chance to accumulate.

Macaluso would _not_ be understanding. The Mafia boss was never patient, save with his dainty cousin, and this would be no exception. If Tony was lucky—and he prayed to anyone who was listening that for once he might be—Macaluso would see the arrest as a sign of sloppiness in some criminal endeavor. If the cover ID was strong enough, and if Tony had acted his role convincingly enough, Macaluso would probably never suspect the truth.

The lie was bad enough. Antonio Florentino should have known better than to pull a stunt heated enough to risk police involvement. _Keep your head down,_ Macaluso had warned more than once. _You want into my organization; you must learn how to lay low._

And Tony had—happily. The bit of law-breaking he'd had to do to maintain his cover thus far had been more than enough. He was fortunate, in fact, than none of it had been particularly nasty. Drug selling, running a few guns—unpleasant, but hardly a great concern. Loath though Tony was to admit it, the Mafia would get their materials with or without his help. Instead, then, of sticking his neck out, he'd been content to build trust with Macaluso.

He only hoped Keyes hadn't shattered it.

Tony closed his aching eyes, and tried to concentrate. _Think_. He needed a plan. A story. Something detailed enough, clever enough, to fool the most successful Mafia boss that Philly had seen for years. Neither did he have long to concoct it—if his stay at the police station stretched more than twenty-four hours, Macaluso would assume he'd been charged.

And that would be the end of Operation Hawkeye.

Unless, of course, Agent Gibbs produced a miracle.

Miracles. Tony felt his lips twist. Miracles, even in everyday life, didn't come on command. But in law enforcement, with a killer who had yet to leave so much as a partial print…

He'd be a fool to rely on it. Even Gibbs, with his too-sharp eyes and boundless determination, would give up in the end. Undercover operations rarely came with an easy button, and nothing about this op had ever been simple.

Tony laid his head down on the table, letting the smooth metal cool his face. It would be so easy to go to sleep, even in this hard chair, even under the glaring lights of interrogation. Let everything drift away for a time. But that was a bad idea, Tony reminded himself thickly. Really bad. He had to stay awake, long enough…to think…

"Tony. Hey, Tony."

The world was shaking. "Maria, stop moving so much," the detective mumbled. "You're jolting the bed."

"Wake up, you bozo. I'm not your friggin' girlfriend."

Someone sounded amused. Not Maria. Someone deep voiced…_very_ deep voiced.

But he never dated smokers…

A _guy?_

Instantly awake, Tony thrust himself backwards, only to realize—too late—that he wasn't in bed at all. Toppling backwards, he grabbed frantically for the table edge, but it slipped through his fingers. Screwing his eyes shut, he prepared himself for impact—

Strong hands gripped him by the shoulders, stopping his freefall. The chair hit the floor with a crash.

"You idiot, don't kill yourself," the voice said exasperatedly. "Don't you have any sense of self-preservation?"

Peeling open his eyelids, Tony squinted up into the bright lights. Honest brown eyes, set in a wide, meaty face, stared down at him with something approaching concern.

He knew that face.

"Steve," Tony said fervently, "I never, ever, want to wake up this close to you again."

Steve snorted, and released him. Tony stumbled backwards, grinning a little; rolling his eyes, Steve thrust a bag into the younger man's hands. "I brought you dinner, you ungrateful wretch."

"Alright," Tony exclaimed, ripping the parcel open. Instantly, the savory scent of cashew chicken wafted up to tickle his nose. Inhaling gleefully, he patted Steve on the shoulder. "You're a good man, Kraut. I'll never give you a hard time again."

"Sure, I believe that." The tone was sarcastic, but the smile was tolerant.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of chewing.

"You forgot chopsticks," Tony mumbled through a mouthful of noodles.

"Tony," Steve sighed. "I thought you didn't like chopsticks. You never use chopsticks!"

True, but that was beside the point. "It's not Chinese without chopsticks," Tony argued. When his friend didn't look convinced, he added, "It's the principle of the thing. To be a true connoisseur—"

"Tony, what's going on?" Steve interrupted fiercely. "There was some navy cop at the front desk, asking about you. And then I find out you're here, and Keyes is suspended, of all things—"

Tony choked on a mouthful of chicken, spraying half-chewed meat onto the table. "Suspended? Are you kidding?"

"I'm dead serious. Word has it that Bridenn was absolutely furious, but nobody knows why—"

"Serves him right," Tony said darkly, resuming his meal. "Bridenn said he'd take care of it, but I didn't think—"

"What did Keyes do?"

"Come on, man," Tony protested awkwardly. "You know I can't tell you that. It's classified."

"Don't give me that classified bullshit." Steve's easy-going manner vanished in an instant, replaced with something deeply pained. "Do you think I'd ever betray you? Give me a little credit. You're my friend."

"No, of course I don't think that." Why must Steve make this an issue of trust? Suddenly, Tony found himself wishing the other man wasn't even there. "All there is to know is that Keyes jeopardized the operation. That's all _anybody_ needs to know."

"And Special Agent Gibbs?" Kraut demanded. "What is he doing here?"

Tony scrubbed at his face one-handed, appetite gone. "Helping," he added quietly. "He's helping, alright?"

"Well, good to know someone is! What the hell is wrong with this place? Watson manipulates you into taking the assignment—"

"Hey," Tony protested weakly. "Hold it. No one manipulates a DiNozzo."

"—Bridenn doesn't do a blasted thing about it, and your own damned _partner _nearly throws the op! I'd be tempted to ask for a transfer, if it wouldn't leave you alone with these wolves, with no one to look out for you—"

"Oh, Maria looks after me." Tony grinned wickedly, lowering his voice to a rumble. "Maria looks after me…_just_…fine. You wouldn't believe what that woman can do."

Steve slammed his hand down on the table. The resulting smack sounded out like gunfire in the empty room. "Damn it, Tony, I'm serious!"

"So am I," Tony assured him—though he wasn't, not really—and ran shaky fingers through his hair, leaving it standing up at odd angles. His whole body had jolted at the sudden noise, and what the hell was he going to do if he was this jumpy around Macaluso? "She's a great girl."

That, at least, was the truth, but somehow it fell as flat as the lie. Steve stared at him, jaw set mulishly. Tony waited, with some trepidation, to see if the feud would continue. A nice fight might ease the sense of his world spinning out of control, but he didn't want that. Not with Kraut.

After a long moment, the older man broke the silence. "Fine, have your jokes," he said stiffly, face still ruddy with frustration. "But I'm going to be watching out for you here, got that?"

It was as close to a proclamation of solidarity as Tony had heard in a long time. Instantly, he felt a smile stretch across his face. "Thanks."

A simple answer, but Steve managed to look surprised all the same. He'd been expecting more evasions, no doubt. Something deep inside Tony twisted—that the closest thing he had to a friend anticipated little other than lies in their conversations was more painful than he'd like to admit. If only Steve wouldn't push so hard—or would probe harder when it mattered, and let go when it did not—

But no. He had only himself to blame, for this.

Tony opened his mouth, intending to say something—anything to fill the excruciating silence.

_Knock knock._

Relief, almost tangible in its forcefulness. Tony got to his feet, intending to open the door, but Steve stopped him with a warning glance.

"Who's there?"

Overcautious, probably. Tony hadn't left the police station, and only the scant few who'd seen him and Gibbs as they walked to the short term evidence garage would likely know he was here. But it was better to be safe than sorry, and so Tony sank back into his chair with a sigh.

"Special Agent Gibbs."

The gruff voice was very familiar by now. All too familiar, given that Gibbs had spent much of the afternoon pumping him—subtly, or else not so subtly—for information. Grimacing, Tony waved for Steve to unlock the door. Great. More questions. Perhaps some answers, if he was lucky.

But mostly, more questions.

Just what he needed to make his day complete.

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**Chapter Notes:** So, will Gibbs create a miracle? Or will Tony have to go back undercover? Would I really be that cruel? :D (I'll leave you all to answer that…)

At long last, an update! I hope you enjoyed. :) Thematically, I wanted to combine this chapter and the next one, but this one became too long. If any action fans are getting antsy, don't worry—this is the calm (if you can call it that) before the storm.

Oh! Mini-celebration here—I have over 50 favorites on this story, and over 150 alerts! Wow! You guys are amazing. :)


	9. Rise to the Occasion

"_Who's gonna make my decisions; I can't make them on my own,_

_Who's gonna rise to the occasion, when there's no one around,_

_Who the hell is gonna believe me; I don't believe in myself…"_

—_Rise to the Occasion_ by Kurt Nilsen

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Gibbs's weather-beaten face reflected nothing as Steve let him into the room. Tony watched the agent carefully, waiting—hoping—for some indication of his thoughts, but the hope was baseless. The older man was completely silent and he settled into the other chair.

And, as usual, fixed his gaze squarely on Tony.

Tony winced inwardly as the blue eyes seared through him. Combating a childish urge to fidget—did the man _never_ tire of staring?—the detective let his attention shift back towards Kraut.

"Thanks, Steve." The quiet words had the feel of a dismissal, for all the two were friends, but Steve hesitated. The officer's eyes flickered—barely—towards Gibbs, then back again. A question. _Are you sure?_

For Kraut, it was a surprisingly understated communication. Tony gave a quick nod, impressed in spite of himself. He hadn't really thought Steve was capable of restraint. A good street cop, sure. Subtle enough to assist with intricate operations? Hardly.

Maybe he'd been wrong.

The door pulled shut with a sharp click, echoing in the metal room. Tony shifted, waiting, for the inevitable.

Gibbs wasted no time. "What does Macaluso want?"

The gruff, pure-business tone was precisely what he'd expected. The question was decidedly not. "What does he want?" Tony repeated, startled for once into frankness. "He's a sadistic bastard of a Mafia boss. What the hell doesn't he want? He'd take the world if he could get it."

Gibbs shrugged, apparently unruffled. "Specifically."

The agent was angling towards something, but for the life of him Tony couldn't guess what. Something to do with the evidence, maybe. A connection?

Somewhere in the back of his mind, hope flared, too faint to acknowledge: _Had Gibbs actually done it?_

"Money, mostly," Tony tried, slowly. "Weapons. Drugs—he doesn't use 'em personally anymore, though. Women—"

"Something you can give him," Gibbs clarified. In the harsh florescent lighting, the agent's aging face appeared almost haggard; for all that, there was nothing but firmness in his manner.

Tony hesitated, tapping restless fingers against the arm of his chair. Gibbs had reached a conclusion, that much was clear. But what? There was little purpose to giving Macaluso anything; the Mafia had access to everything it needed, one way or another. Certainly better prices could be negotiated, better weapons obtained. But what Macaluso sought most from his associates was the one thing that the police department was unable to grant him—loyalty.

Loyalty. Tony's insides twisted. Yes, Macaluso wanted obedience, devotion at any cost. By now—having read through the files, sifted through the gruesome piles of evidence—Gibbs had to be aware of that. So why bother asking?

Tony lifted his gaze, already knowing the answer, but hating himself for hoping anyway. "We're trying to placate him."

The agent said nothing. It was enough. Tony shut his eyes, the last tendril of optimism withering into dust. So. There would be no miracle. He would be on his own.

Somehow, it always ended that way.

Tony clenched his fist, nails biting into his palm. The sharp pain killed the surge of fear; swallowing, he tried to focus.

He was so very tired. Of all of this.

"He doesn't want anything," Tony answered finally, and his voice was dull. It was the truth. They both knew it. "And there's no way I can give him anything anyway, without him wondering where I got it. Thanks for the help, Special Agent Gibbs, but I'll take it from here."

The tone the cadence of the phrase, echoed Tony's words to Steve just a few minutes ago. A dismissal. It was his to give, unless Bridenn or Watson countermanded the request, and there was nothing more for the agent to do here.

But Gibbs didn't move an inch. "Everyone wants something, Dinozzo."

The words were strangely mild, almost gentle. For a moment, Tony stared, struck dumb. He would've sworn the man didn't have a gentle gone in his body. Thoroughly unnerved, Tony felt his eyebrows crease in a glare. "He doesn't want anything I can give him. What part of 'I'll take it from here' wasn't clear?"

"Sure he does," Gibbs said easily, crossing his arms. "He wants you to be his _soldato_." The agent drew out the word, slowly but crisply, and Tony was too startled to criticize his accent. "He's put a lot of time into you. You want to be what he's looking for—well, he wants you to be what he's looking for. Getting arrested—" Gibbs shrugged one shoulder. "That looks foolish. You walk in there with nothing but a story; he's not going to be happy. But give him a story he wants to hear, and something he likes…" The agent smiled sharply. "Suddenly you're what he's looking for again."

It was the longest speech Tony had ever heard come out of the older man's mouth. But that was far from the most surprising thing. Not only had Gibbs not retaliated with a far more scorching glare, he was actually trying to be helpful. And what was more…

Gibbs might have hit on something.

"Turn it to my advantage," Tony said slowly, thoughts racing. It was a good idea—ingenuous, even. Pulling it off was another question entirely. "So I'm the overenthusiastic associate who, what, executed some great operation but let the police get just a little too close for comfort? It might work, but he's not going to like it. Antonio Florentino is supposed to be keeping his nose clean."

The agent shook his head, the motion dismissive. "Too risky."

"Because nothing about this operation has ever been risky," Tony scoffed, unable to help himself. It was nice to have someone to brainstorm with, for once, but it was galling to be lectured. He'd been working this op single-handedly since the day he met Macaluso. And he hadn't done so badly. Had he? Feeling oddly resentful, Tony looked down, gripping his wrist where Macaluso had once burned him.

He'd given everything for this op. _Everything._

There was a strange tightness in his throat. How long, Tony thought inconsequentially, had it been since he'd felt truly safe? He barely felt secure here, with locked doors and no windows, with an armed federal agent only feet away.

_I want out._

The thought came without warning. Shocked, Tony felt his eyes go wide. _Out?_ There was no way. It would doom Hawkeye, doom everything…but the detective was alarmed to realize how much he wanted it. To be able to relax, pick up girls, maybe even to transfer—Tony thought of Steve, not without a pang—to walk down the street without looking over his shoulder…

It was an intoxicating vision. Determinedly, Tony forced himself to recall Julia's piquant face, her mutilated body, but the image only made him feel exhausted. There was no saving here. She was already dead.

He'd already failed.

What difference did it make if he destroyed his life trying to avenge hers?

Julia's mocking face taunted him, daring him—but to what? Before Tony could even begin to guess, her sharp cheekbones softened, her eyes grew large, lips grew full.

_Maria._

Shame, suffocating in its weight, flooded through him. He was an idiot; worse, he was a coward. Julia deserved to be avenged, and there were innocents who deserved to be saved. Here he was, wallowing in self pity, while _lives_ hung in the balance.

Gibbs had the right to lecture him, after all.

"Well, got a better idea?" Tony asked, smiling carefully. It felt empty—felt fake—and probably looked it. But it was the best he could muster. "I'm all ears."

The agent looked at him, gaze a bit too sharp for Tony's liking. Had any of his thoughts shown on his face? "You were trying to impress Macaluso by getting him another contact. But the contact wanted to make sure you were clean. So he pulled some strings in the police department, got you pulled in on some manufactured charge to see if you held up under scrutiny as well as you said you did. Twenty-four hours pass, the police can't make anything stick. You've passed the test. The contact's ready to do business."

"You've done this before," Tony accused. Gibbs's lips quirked, but no other response was forthcoming. "Well, that sounds great, but do you really think Macaluso's going to swallow that?"

"He will if he meets the contact."

Tony sighed. Would it kill the man to explain anything without being asked? "Okay, who's my mystery contact, then? Are _you_ volunteering? Because there's not exactly—"

"Thought I might."

The younger man's protest died in his throat, killed by shock. "Are you serious?" It came out a whisper, rough as sandpaper, and Tony felt heat rise in his cheeks. Swallowing, he tried again, but Gibbs beat him to the punch. "I don't joke, DiNozzo."

Somehow, looking at the sharp jaw, the heavy eyes, Tony was inclined to doubt him. But why? "This case means that much to you?"

Gibbs smiled—a tiny, humorless smile. "Justice does."

"You could be killed."

"That's not stopping you." And the agent's voice was light, impersonal, but there was something new there, something inexplicable—not fondness, but something like it.

Admiration?

No. Tony dismissed the impression automatically. A man like Gibbs—self-assured, clever, brave, skilled—had little reason to admire him. A smart-mouthed playboy in over his head on an operation? It was ridiculous. And yet…

Tony felt warmed, somehow. For the first time that day, his grin was genuine. "Alright."

Maybe he would come out of this in one piece, after all.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Gibbs stared at his cup with distaste. Coffee. Dark brown and deliciously fragrant. Gibbs picked up the drink and eyed in balefully. _The case_, he reminded himself grimly. It was all for the case.

With that in mind, Gibbs threw back his head and took a swig.

He'd been expecting the taste—or the lack thereof. Still, the agent was barely able to keep from gagging as he swallowed.

This was torture.

Gibbs stalked over to the sink, and dumped the entire cup down the drain.

"I guess you don't like coffee?" A voice queried, sounding rather astonished.

The agent glanced. A young officer—plump-faced, ginger-haired—stood in the doorway of the break room. A rookie, if his gormless expression was anything to go by.

Gibbs smashed his cup, and shoved the cardboard remains into the trash. "That's not coffee," He said harshly. The man stared, watery blue eyes widening almost comically, and Gibbs struggled to keep the lid on his temper.

It had been a _very_ long day. Frustrating and—much as he hated to admit it—fatiguing. He got tired easier these days; colder, too, but only slightly. A sign of aging, Gibbs supposed, when he spared the matter thought. Generally it didn't concern him. Philly's sterile interrogation room, though, was chilly enough to make a polar bear shiver.

He'd been compared to polar bears before, but the temperature had still been enough to make a hot drink sounds enticing. On the whole, Gibbs would have preferred to work on planning in the warmer, main area of the building, but interrogation _was _more secure. And truly, he hadn't wanted to push the issue. DiNozzo was on edge as it was.

DiNozzo. An image of the young man rose before his eyes—thin, worn, grinning maddeningly. A walking contradiction. The perennial frat boy, a smart aleck with an endless appetite for movie references, only about a fourth of which Gibbs had understood. On an ordinary day, the agent wouldn't have paid him any heed. But there was more to the detective than an obnoxious streak.

And a great deal more to this situation than met the eye.

Gibbs exited the break room, ignoring the cop's curious stare. Time for bed. He'd always been a night owl, but even for him, staying up the night before was a fool's plan. It was too bad about the coffee, but resting was the wisest course of action anyway.

Not that sleep was a likely outcome.

The evidence had been grotesque. Gibbs had seen plenty of torture victims before, but he had a feeling a few of those images would be haunting him for years to come. Still, the agent was used to coping—had to be, or he'd be a hermit for real by now, instead of just a boat-building loner. More troubling was the information he'd uncovered.

Oh, just whispers, some of it. Extrapolation. But Franks had long ago taught him to read between the lines.

DiNozzo should never have been undercover.

Not, Gibbs acknowledged willingly, that the detective had done a bad job. Far from it. According to Bridenn, no one had ever gotten this close to Macaluso. And when DiNozzo transferred from Peoria, his scores on the mandatory Philadelphia undercover training program had been stratospheric. In light of that, it seemed perfectly natural for DiNozzo to request Hawkeye.

At first glance.

But DiNozzo's personal file told a different story.

Buried in the detective's performance evaluations was an interview with one of Philly's Sergeants. The conversation, recorded in shorthand with none of DiNozzo's quirky insertions, had been interesting, but hardly enlightening. Except for one question: _Would consid. undercover work? NO._

The first time through, Gibbs had thought little of it. The kid's partner had died in an undercover mission; a refusal was not unnatural, and if DiNozzo had himself been a killer—as Gibbs had half suspected at the time—the detective would have no reason to go undercover.

But DiNozzo had, after all.

It wasn't inconceivable, of course, that after a few months DiNozzo would have a change of heart. Gibbs would have accepted it without question, probably—if it wasn't for the one things that had made him suspect the detective in the first place.

If DiNozzo wasn't deliberately orchestrating it, how the hell were he and Keyes stuck with all of the Macaluso cases?

The question niggled at him, and Gibbs didn't care for the implication. Someone had to be controlling it, and the move reeked of manipulation. But to what purpose? Gibbs thought he might have a hunch, and the suspicion made him angrier than he'd like to admit.

Had DiNozzo been deliberately maneuvered into taking Hawkeye?

It didn't matter now, Gibbs reminded himself firmly, and it was none of his business anyway. What he needed to do was make sure his own maneuverings—having DiNozzo arrested—didn't get the detective killed or tortured. It was only fair; moreover, it was the only way to get justice for Petty Officer Chaplin. That was all there was to it. Certainly his offer to pose as John Haglin, the arms dealer Antonio Florentino had supposedly contacted, had nothing to do with the desperate look that kept creeping into DiNozzo's expressive green eyes. And it Gibbs felt himself subconsciously comparing the detective's sharp mind and determination with Blackadder and Burley…

Well. It was only because DiNozzo was brave, and had done a damned good job.

It wasn't as though he _liked_ the kid.

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Chapter Notes: Wow! The response to last chapter blew me away. I'm thrilled so many of you are reading and enjoying. I was amused (and a little nervous) that you all seemed split in half between wanting Tony to go back undercover. And this week's question—does anyone want to share their predictions for the climax/end of the story? It was fun reading your predictions last chapter, though I'm not saying a thing. ;)

Sorry for the delay, by the way. There's been a lot going on, and my mom had to have surgery (she's doing fine.) At any rate, I hope to have the next chapter up by the end of next week. And you'll get to se Tony and Gibbs undercover. Yay! I've been waiting to get to this part of the story for ages. :D Action coming your way!


	10. Vultures Lie In Wait

"_Under a blackened sky,_

_Far beyond the glaring streetlights,_

_Sleeping on empty dreams,_

_The vultures lie in wait…"_

_Wait_ by Sarah McLachlan

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It felt as though he'd never left.

The soft bronze carpeting muffled the sounds of his footsteps as he trudged to the door. Antiqued lamps lit the hallway with their gentle glow. A cleaning lady, armed with a wheezing vacuum, scrubbed determinedly at the carpet.

Tony waved at her jauntily, grinning a hello. She scowled, thick brows scrunching. Perhaps she thought he was flirting. Maybe he would have, on a different day, with a different mission. She wasn't half bad looking, really, and maid outfits were always…appealing. But right now…

Right now, he enough on his mind.

Smile fading, Tony extended his hand towards the door, letting his fingers brush against the wood before folding into a fist. _Tap tap._

The raps were subdued, particularly for a man who loved nothing better than alarming the entire hall with the forcefulness of his knocks. A moment passed with no reaction, and the detective closed his eyes.

The door creaked open. A single dark brown eye, lined with mascara, peered through the crack.

"Maria?"

"Tony!" It came out as an odd, strangled sound, halfway between a gasp and a sigh. Instantly Maria stepped aside, ushering him in, and twisted the deadlock. It fell into place with a _click_. "What happened? Mike said you'd been arrested. I've been so worried. I didn't know if something had gone wrong, or if…that is, I thought perhaps…" Abruptly she trailed off, darting an apprehensive glance toward the entrance. A grimace twisted her red lips. "Never mind."

"What was that all about?" Tony demanded, jerking his head toward the door. "Who were you expecting? Did Macaluso threaten you?"

Maria grabbed his elbow. "Mike wouldn't threaten me," she said exasperatedly, tugging him towards the living room. "He stopped by this morning to warn me about _you_."

Ice filled Tony's veins. "To warn you?" The detective croaked, stopping in his tracks. "Maria—"

Maria tugged again, pulling him forward. "Not like that. He doesn't think you'll hurt me, he just thinks you're reckless. And the other," she gestured at the door, one handed, "Didn't have anything to do with you. I let him in before checking who it was, and he scolded me for being careless. We've fought about it before."

Reckless. It wasn't good, but under the circumstances…"He's right," Tony said sharply. "You of all people need to be careful. And next time, look through the peephole. I could have shoved into the apartment in two seconds flat. I could have grabbed you. I could have _shot_ you—"

"You could have shot me through the door too," Maria pointed out tartly.

"Not as easily!" Frustration burst out of him in the form of a shout. Maria visibly winced, but he couldn't stop. "A deadbolt doesn't do a damned thing if you invite an aggressor into the house!"

"Stop yelling." Her voice was low, and almost completely steady, but for the briefest second her chin trembled.

Tony stared at her, jaw set hard against more angry words, suddenly as furious with himself as he'd been with her a moment ago. Memory flashed in front of his eyes, of another man raging, another woman crying.

He'd sworn to never be that man.

"Sorry," Tony said tightly. She was too sensitive, and he was too insensitive, and it was a marvel Maria could stand to be in the same room with him for more than five consecutive seconds.

Maria reached out a hand, touching his arm with gentle fingers—a tactile acceptance of his apology. "What happened, Tony? What's going on?"

Her eyes were pools of worry. As quickly as it had appeared, Tony's anger dissolved. It was hard—impossible, even—to stay mad at her.

Which was itself infuriating.

Tony scrubbed at his face—swallowing this second, far more unreasonable spurt of temper—and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Keyes arrested me when I was out having lunch with Macaluso. I signaled Keyes to stop, but he ignored me. Listen to me—we worked out a plan for why I was brought in. You don't need to know the details. But the short of it is, I met with a gun dealer to try to impress Macaluso. The gun dealer is one of us, got it?"

Maria's golden-hued face went white. "Tony, he's furious," she said, voice barely above a breath. "He's absolutely furious already. He's not going to like this. Please…"

The word trailed away. It was a plea, but Tony didn't know to whom. Him? Macaluso? Her God, maybe. "He'll like it better than the truth."

She said nothing. Tony could hardly blame her.

"He'll have people watching the apartment building, waiting for me," Tony said quietly. "Macaluso is probably already on his way. You should go somewhere else."

"I'll do nothing of the sort." Maria flushed pink, but she held his gaze. "That's not how it works. If I leave now, it will look like I don't intend to stand by you."

Yes, and there lay the problem. An impression of loyalty was well and good—necessary, even—but if Macaluso thought she'd side with Tony in a crisis… "It wasn't a suggestion."

"And if I take it as one?" An edge crept into her soft voice.

Tony stared down at her, at the glinting eyes, the stubborn jaw. "Then you won't be the backup I need you to be."

Maria flinched as if slapped, letting her hair fall forward to shield her face.

Tony bit back the impulse to apologize. He was right, and she knew he was right. He would not compromise the mission—would not compromise her safety—to protect her feelings.

Even on something as small as this.

A knock sounded at the door.

_Too late._

Instantly Tony rose. Pasting on his widest smile, he pulled open the door.

"Florentino," Macaluso acknowledged grimly. His dark eyes glittered. Two men, black-haired and muscular, flanked him like pillars. "How good to see you."

"_Buon giorno_," Tony agreed cheerfully, pointedly ignoring the other men. He grinned at Macaluso, pouring every ounce of his considerable charm into the expression. "What can I do for—"

A hand clamped onto his shoulder, fingers biting into the muscle hard enough to bruise. Wincing, Tony fell silent.

"_Sta zitto_," Macaluso breathed, voice low. "_Sta zitto_, my stupid, stupid friend."

For once in his life, Tony did as he was told.

"Mike," Maria called out easily, smile going wide. She came to stand near them, eyes flickering from the detective to Macaluso and back again. Like Tony, she disregarded the other visitors. Somehow, the gesture warmed him. "Look who came in this morning."

Macaluso's fingers tightened further. "Yes." The reply was mild, but his eyes were hard. "We have business to discuss, Tony and I. Your friend Angelia has been asking about you—perhaps you should pay her a visit."

"Of course," Maria replied equally smoothly, and planted a kiss on Tony's cheek. Her lips lingered for a moment, slightly moist against his skin. "Until later, darling," she murmured, voice husky, and for a second Tony's mind jumped to forbidden quarters.

He settled for a smile, and hoped his x-rated thoughts didn't show on his face as the door pulled shut.

It was as though Maria's exit had released them from a spell. Instantly the room went electric. "Into the kitchen," Macaluso snapped, powering Tony forwards. One of his men dragged out a chair, letting the legs scrape noisily against the expensive tile floors.

Macaluso shoved him into the seat. Releasing Tony's shoulder, the mafia boss gripped the detective's throat with one broad hand.

"What," the Mafia boss said, voice dangerously soft, "Is the matter with you?"

A good question. Rhetorical, for certain. But Antonio Florentino—not unlike Tony DiNozzo—was a loud-mouthed son of a gun, and so Tony let himself grin cheekily.

Macaluso liked brass.

"Well. A lot of things, really. But Maria says my biggest problem is I'm just too danged good looking."

The blow—not entirely unexpected—caught him on the right jaw, snapping his head to the side. Miniature lights burst behind his eyes. Grimacing, Tony lifted his head, swallowing past the pain.

Perhaps not _that_ much brass.

"And you've mentioned that I can't keep my mouth shut," Tony amended, flexing his jaw gingerly. He could hear Macaluso's men shifting into position behind him.

He hoped that didn't mean what he thought it did.

"Now would be a very good time to try." The grip on Tony's throat tightened, then released. Macaluso pulled over a chair and straddled it, resting his arms across the top. "You are walking a very delicate line, my friend."

This time, Tony stayed silent. A smile—slow, grimly triumphant—curved Macaluso's thin lips.

"Let's try this again. Why were you arrested?"

"That's kind of a long story. But I'll tell it," Tony said hastily, catching the ominous twist of the mouth. "You see, an acquaintance of mine wanted to make sure the police didn't have anything on me. Obviously, they didn't."

"I thought you said it was a long story."

"Ah. Well, that's not the whole story. These things take some time to unfold. Say it too fast, and you ruin the punch line. And let me tell you, this story has a great punch line."

Macaluso's eyes narrowed a fraction. "And what would that be?"

It was now or never. Tony let the bombshell drop. "My acquaintance is willing to supply you with some awfully nice guns, for a very low price."

Complete and utter stillness. Macaluso's face tightened. Tony's heart raced out of control, struggling to fill the oppressive silence with its beats.

"Let me see if I understand this properly. I believe," Macaluso said conversationally, rising from his seat, "That I told you to keep a low profile. Isn't that right, Tony?"

Of course it was right. Only an fool could have misunderstood the order. But admitting that was akin to suicide. "You might have mentioned it," Tony hedged instead, rubbing his chin. "But you wouldn't believe the deal I found for you—"

"Maybe I would, maybe I would not." His movements languid, Macaluso moved to stand next to the chair. One hand came to rest at the nape of Tony's neck, the touch almost a caress.

Tony's skin prickled. It was difficult to rein in his tongue, even harder not to rise up from his chair and strangle Macaluso on the spot. Defiance was easy. This passive acceptance of cruelty, this cautious biding of time…

Not so much.

Macaluso shifted directly behind him, fingers ghosting over the hairs at the base of Tony's neck. "The guns are irrelevant, my friend."

A silvery rasp was Tony's only warning before something sharp came to rest at his hairline. Every nerve screamed at him to flee.

Instead, he froze.

Macaluso laughed softly, his breath close enough to raise goose bumps on Tony's skin. "So stoic, Tony. Would you be so stoic if I slit your throat?"

There was an art to dealing with Macaluso, a mixture of confidence and obedience that mimicked the push and pull of interrogation. By now, Tony knew it as well as anyone. "Well, call me an optimist, but I was kind of hoping it wouldn't come to that."

The laugh, this time, was startled. And genuine. "Oh, Tony. Tony, Tony," Macaluso murmured, before trailing the blade down to his shoulder. "So quick. Too quick. I have been very proud of you. Tell me, why would you risk throwing that away?"

"You were telling me about rising ammunition prices—"

The knife pressed down, a centimeter of pressure away from drawing blood. "That was not your move to make," Macaluso breathed, lowering his mouth to the level of Tony's ear. "I did not ask you to act. I will not pay for your mistakes. Is that clear, Florentino?"

"Yes, sir." The submissive reply took every ounce of determination that Tony had, but he grit it out.

Macaluso's hand slid forward, scraping the blade across the detective's skin. "You are lucky I am giving you a chance to redeem yourself."

The soft rumble held an undertone of malice. Tony waited with bated breath, but no other violence was forthcoming. After a moment, the knife lifted.

"When were you planning to meet with this gun dealer?"

Almost dizzy at the reprieve, Tony forced himself to reply. "This week."

Macaluso stepped away. "You will make the call. You will set up a meet. I will not back you up. If everything goes well, I may choose to overlook your impulsiveness."

The older man strode to the door, knife still gleaming in the apartment's cheery lamplight. His henchmen, to Tony's unease, did not follow.

"And Tony?" Macaluso paused, sheathing his blade with a rasp of metal on metal. "Don't ever do that again. Giordano, Bianchi…" The mafia man smiled, eyes hard as flint. "Show Florentino why it is unwise to disobey me."

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_**Chapter Notes:**_ It seems like I'm forever apologizing for late chapters, so I'll spare you. :D I didn't cover quite everything I wanted to on this chapter, but it seemed like a good place to stop. Hope everyone enjoyed! Every last one of you reviewers is amazing. You make writing this so rewarding. Extra special shout out to a few of you who took the time to write extremely long reviews, or to review every chapter—such dedication! You know who you are. ;)

_**Regarding next chapter:**_ I'm going to be studying abroad for two weeks. I'll return on the 19th, but I doubt I'll have time to write while I'm on the trip. I might write on the plane, but we'll see how sleep deprived I am. Haha. I never can sleep on planes…

Okay, so I have a request to make. I'm not looking for a beta, but I was wondering if someone might be willing to look over a few certain chapters (after I write them, which I haven't yet) just to make sure they are okay for a T rating. Would anyone who's okay with dark themes be willing to take a glance at them before I post?

Sta zitto means "shut up," by the way.


	11. The Search For an Answer

"_I can't understand it_

_The search for an answer is met with a darker day_

_And we've been handed these moments forever,_

_But I'm reassured there's another way…"_

_Never Let Go_ by Josh Groban

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There was nothing to do.

Gibbs sank into the couch with a sigh, balancing his cell phone on his leg, and glared half-heartedly at his sterile surroundings.

Solitude was one thing. He'd always done well with solitude, particularly when it was paired with woodworking and the smoky taste of bourbon. This, though—this infuriating inactivity, paired with isolation—was something else entirely.

Not that he was actually alone. Half a dozen men were dispersed through the house, armed with AK-47s and machine guns. Security for John Haglin, the supposed gun dealer.

As if Gibbs was the one who needed protection.

It was for appearance's sake, he knew. A crucial precaution, in case Macaluso decided to pay a call, only to find that Haglin and his house didn't exist. But it was still an embarrassment of riches, all these armed and ready men. Gibbs could think of a thousand better uses for them.

_Like giving DiNozzo some backup._

Gibbs brushed away the fleeting thought. It was impossible. A pointless idea. Introducing a new player at this point would be disastrous. Adding Haglin was dangerous enough. And yet…

His gut was niggling at him.

If only he had some case files! Gibbs shifted restlessly, staring at his phone. Something to occupy his mind until the detective finally called. But case files didn't belong in the house of an arms dealer. He could, of course, watch TV—but that was even less productive than staring at the wall, and about equally satisfying.

Plus, that remote was pretty damn difficult to operate.

A high-pitched ringtone pealed through the room. Quickly, the agent flipped the phone open, remembering—barely—to push the green button 'speak' button. Why they couldn't make all cell phones operate the same way was beyond him. "Haglin."

"Hi, this is Amy, I'm calling for—wait, who?" The husky female voice barely had time to register confusion before Gibbs hit the red button, effectively ending the conversation. Frustrated, Gibbs chucked the phone to the end of the couch.

God damnit, why hadn't DiNozzo called?

The phone rang again. Gibbs spared it a disdainful glance, certain it was another wrong number, but stretched to grab it anyway. _Unknown number, _the screen read. Swallowing another sigh—and vowing grimly that if this was 'Amy', she was going to get an earful for tying up the phone line—Gibbs answered.

"Haglin."

A long pause, and heavy breathing. Then…"Gibbs?"

Relief, laced with unease. It was DiNozzo, alive and well enough to make a phone call. But even that one word was enough for the agent to tell that something was wrong. "Detective," Gibbs said evenly. "How'd it go?"

Again the younger man's response was a moment in coming. A laugh—short, shaky—floated across the line. "Well, that was fun."

Not a comforting answer, on the whole. "DiNozzo?"

"The good news is that Macaluso bought it," DiNozzo continued, as though he hadn't registered the query. His voice sounded detached, almost mechanical. "He bought it, all right."

"DiNozzo."

An order, this time.

The detective kept talking. "And he wants the guns. Or actually, he wants me to get him the guns. Which is way better, really, if you think about it. It's safer that way—"

"DiNozzo!" The harshness did what the gentler approach had not, and finally broke through the detective's monologue. DiNozzo stopped. When he continued, he sounded almost baffled, but decidedly more alert.

"What?"

"You alright?" Gibbs asked, keeping his voice calm. Better. The emotionless spiel—coming from the moody detective, of all people—had been more than slightly disturbing.

"Well, the bad news is, Macaluso wasn't very happy. But they didn't do any permanent damage," DiNozzo added dismissively. "I'm fine. Don't worry your pretty little head about it."

"Care to repeat that, detective?" Gibbs growled, though in truth he was almost pleased to hear the joke.

The keyword being _almost._

A pause. "On second thought," DiNozzo amended, sounding sheepish even over the phone. "I take it back."

"Good idea," Gibbs agreed, almost amiably. "Good idea, DiNozzo."

"Your head isn't small at all. And it sure isn't pretty."

"Detective." The tone threatened retribution in every syllable. Injured or not, DiNozzo was lucky he wasn't within headslapping range.

"What, it was the 'worrying' comment that got you mad? Sorry about that. I didn't mean to imply that you were the fretting nursemaid type."

"Do you just want me to punch your lights out when we meet face to face?" Gibbs demanded, raising his eyebrow—not that DiNozzo could see it.

"No, I think Bianchi and Giordano did a good enough job of that already." The honesty was unprecedented, but now the younger man's voice was bleak. "Sorry, Special Agent Gibbs. Didn't mean to offend."

Gibbs found himself frowning, for a multitude of reasons. "Don't apologize. It's a sign of weakness."

"She Wore a Yellow Ribbon!" The announcement, ringing across the line, was positively gleeful. "The Duke! A movie reference. I didn't think you had it in you."

"Rule number six."

"What?"

"It's rule number six," Gibbs repeated impatiently, rising to his feet.

"Well, yeah, I heard that, but—"

"Just remember it." The kid was unquenchable. "What's the plan?"

A sigh, long enough and loud enough to be heard through the phone. "Well. Macaluso decided that part of my punishment, for my _indiscretion—_" For the first time, a note of bitterness leaked into DiNozzo's voice. "—is that I have to meet with you without back up. Best turn he's ever done me. Obviously, you'll still be giving me guns, so for the sake of avoiding a second arrest and lots of interdepartmental confusion, we should go somewhere secluded. But that's it. He won't even see your face."

It was fortunate. For a lot of reasons. "Where?"

"Call Bridenn," DiNozzo suggested. "He'll have a good suggestion. I haven't worked a gun running case since my first year in Peoria."

"I'll call." For the second time in the last half hour, Gibbs pressed the red button, severing the connection. Belatedly, he realized that with the detective's current—uncertain—state of mind, it might have been better to warn him.

Shrugging, Gibbs dialed in Bridenn's number, thoughts already moving onto another concern. Yes, it was fortunate that the meet could go down without Macaluso.

But how high of a price had DiNozzo paid for the privilege?

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One look across the alleyway, at the slim, silent man lounging against his truck, was enough to answer the question.

_Too high._

Even through the clouded windows of the van, DiNozzo's normally confident posture was hunched. It might have been merely from the cold—Philadelphia winters were by no means toasty—but something told Gibbs it was more than that. The bowed head, the way that the detective twisted away from the street—all of it pointed to discomfort. Whether the damage was more physical or psychological, however…

Gibbs hit the brakes. The van shuddered, then jerked to a stop, jolting his passengers forward. The men—plain-clothes officers, all of them—took it in stride, jumping out into the frosty air with only a few grumbled complaints.

Gibbs exited the vehicle more carefully, his eye on the lonely figure across the street. Leaving the other men to unload the cargo, the agent strode across the alleyway.

"DiNozzo."

At the measured greeting, DiNozzo turned, and Gibbs winced inwardly. It was too soon for any serious bruises, but the detective's well-defined face bore the unmistakable evidence of enemy attentions. Heavy redness spread from the left corner of his mouth to the top of his high cheekbone, and blossomed again on the right side of his jaw.

DiNozzo grinned, a strained expression that still managed to seem genuinely pleased. The motion pulled on his mouth, revealing a split lip. Grimacing, DiNozzo let the smile drop. "Special Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs surveyed the younger man with an eagle eye, searching for other visible injuries. He came up dry, though the intensity of his appraisal earned him an odd look from the young man. The agent waited, resigned, for one of the outrageously inappropriate jokes DiNozzo was so prone to making.

Nothing came.

Frowning slightly, Gibbs noted the halfway-closed eyes, the compulsive shivering. DiNozzo _was _cold. Too cold. Hardly surprising, considering his inadequate attire—a cheap black suit—but nevertheless Gibbs felt a twinge of displeasure. How long had the kid been out here? "Cold?"

The detective darted a glance at him, a wry, _duh_ sort of glance. "No, I'm toasty," DiNozzo said, teeth chattering wildly. "Why would I be cold? It's not like it's winter or anything—"

"Come on, get in the van."

The tolerant order seemed to catch DiNozzo by surprise. Derailed from his rant, the detective blinked, looking—just for an instant—curiously bewildered. Then he rallied.

"Don't you think they need our help?" Waving his left hand, DiNozzo indicated the cops currently moving innocuous-looking cardboard boxes from the van into the truck. "We don't want to be caught out here."

No, they didn't, but the risk was minimal. Bridenn had ordered the entire police force to steer clear of this part of town. "Come on, DiNozzo," Gibbs repeated, the tone not allowing for any disagreement.

After a moment's hesitation, DiNozzo did.

The front area of the van was still warm, even though the engine was no longer on. Too warm, really, for Gibbs's preferences. But considering how badly DiNozzo was still shivering, he was prepared to make allowances.

The detective curved into the passenger seat, wrapping his arms around himself. In the darkened lighting, his rapidly swelling face looked even worse.

Which made Gibbs feel like even more of a bastard than usual for what he was about to do.

"Waiting for a while?"

DiNozzo pealed open a single eye. "Hmmm?" He sounded miles away—and thus, for once, unguarded.

Good.

"You seemed like you'd been here a while," Gibbs said casually. "That so?"

"I s'pose," DiNozzo murmured thickly, closing his eyes again. He leaned his head against the glass, gelled hair pressing hard against the cold, clammy surface.

The silence stretched. Outside, the men moved back and forth, steadily toting their contraband goods.

"Went pretty badly with Macaluso, huh?"

Instantly, the younger man snapped to attention. "Could have gone worse." DiNozzo sat upright, abandoning his comfortable slouch. Green eyes, lit with something unidentifiable, watched Gibbs warily. "It wasn't a bad plan."

It _hadn't_ been a bad plan. And yet here the kid was, badly bruised and saying that it could have gone worse.

If DiNozzo couldn't see that this was plenty bad enough, then there was more wrong here than Gibbs had even suspected. "Bad enough to get you beaten by Macaluso's thugs."

Shock flashed across DiNozzo's features, to be replaced almost immediately by anger. "It wasn't like that." The younger man sounded almost…betrayed. As though Gibbs had broken some unspoken rule.

Maybe he had. And maybe he was taking advantage of DiNozzo, of the emotional rawness and vulnerability that came with trauma. It would be kinder, probably, to let the kid keep his shields, protect his shadows. But Gibbs needed answers.

He had to know.

Gibbs snorted, a derisive sound. "Wasn't like what?"

DiNozzo glowered, clenching his jaw. "It would have happened anyway. That's the way Macaluso rolls. Why the hell do you care, anyway? I didn't screw up your precious investigation, so why don't you just—"

Gibbs cut him off, disregarding the question. He tried to tell himself the avoidance wasn't convenient. "Why doesn't your partner like you?"

DiNozzo opened his mouth, then clamped it shut, like a vaguely panicky fish. "I—"

"Did you put strychnine in his coffee, Tony? Kill his cat? Set his house on fire?" By now, the kid was wearing an en expression appropriate to having been sucker-punched. Gibbs shoved on ruthlessly. "Anything that warrants risking _that_ in a fit of temper?" He gestured contemptuously at DiNozzo's injuries. The detective stared at him, stock-still and wordless.

Leaning forward, Gibbs lowered his voice to an ominous level. "He could've gotten you killed. And you would have risked going in anyway. Why?"

"Stop it," DiNozzo said sharply. Shakily. Warningly. "Stop it, _Special Agent Gibbs_."

It was the desperation, coming from a man who'd been ribbing him fearlessly not an hour ago, that got Gibbs's attention. Abruptly he registered the way the detective was pressed against the door, the long, dangling fingers just inches from the handle. The breathing—a little too shallow. A little too fast.

"I didn't do anything. I didn't do anything, alright?" The words, at first defensive, gained in fury. "It wasn't my fault. Keyes is just an idiot. And I wouldn't have gone back undercover if I didn't think it was safe, got that? So don't you _dare_ sit over there, all high and mighty, and imply—"

"What?" Gibbs asked almost softly, daring DiNozzo to fill in the gap. _Come on, kid. Tell me what I should be implying._

DiNozzo glared at him, unbending, hatred written in every line of his damaged face. His body was wire-taut, his lips set tight, and for a second Gibbs half expected to be on the receiving end of a wild punch.

Then the fire went out of DiNozzo's eyes, and the moment was gone.

The young man slumped against the seat, wincing almost imperceptibly as the move jostled his side. DiNozzo gazed out the front window unseeingly, his normally animated expression completely blank. "What do you want to know?"

In the quiet, his voice was almost hoarse. Uncontrolled. Gibbs found himself frowning, curiously unwilling to pose a question to this new version of the detective.

"What are you waiting for, Gibbs?" DiNozzo said sharply, still not turning. "Fine. You win, got it? Ask what you like. None of it matters anyway. Just get it the hell out of your system. We both know you've been dying to interrogate me. Still not-so-secretly suspect I'm a psychopath?"

The bitterness mounted with every word. Gibbs let it wash over him, feeling a prickle of something that might have been guilt in a lesser person. "No," the agent said simply. "Never really did. Just had to be sure."

The Italian said nothing, but something in the set of his shoulders relaxed at the admission.

"Why don't you have backup?"

DiNozzo shrugged. "I turned it down. The way we planned it, Macaluso would have smelled a rat. Maria's my backup now."

Yes. Maria Donatti. Macaluso's cousin. An untrained civilian with a dangerous connection to the suspect.

It made for a dubious contingency plan, at best.

"What?" DiNozzo challenged, finally turning to face him. His eyes glinted with something unidentifiable. "Were you expecting a conspiracy? Anyhow, it's not so bad. Maria's clever. Plus, she's scorching hot." DiNozzo waggled his eyebrows obscenely, but even Gibbs could see that his heart wasn't in it. "Is that it? I was waiting for the probing questions about my childhood. My last session with the PD therapist was a lot funnier."

The words would have been more obnoxious, had it not been for the deadened tone. As it was…

"Got what you need to take him down?"

The question was gentle, intended to throw the detective off guard enough to get an honest answer. _Be harsh when they expect kindness, soft when they anticipate attack._ It was basic interrogation strategy, and though hardly foolproof, it usually worked like a charm. Gibbs doubted that even DiNozzo, with all his machinations, was entirely immune. On a good day, perhaps—but this was a bad day, and Gibbs was not an enemy, but an adversary cloaked as a friend.

_Or a friend cloaked as an adversary. _

Sure enough, DiNozzo dropped his eyes. "Don't worry, Gibbs. I'll get justice for your Petty Officer. Believe it or not, I'm not so bad at this undercover stuff."

Gibbs's mouth curved into a pleased smile. Determination. Good. And a little confidence didn't hurt, either. Maybe DiNozzo was better off than he'd thought.

All the same…

"Yeah," the agent said mildly, resting his arms on the steering wheel. "Yeah, I know you will. But Chaplin's already dead. You got what you need to keep from becoming the next victim?"

"Yeah, well, that'd be the general idea. I'm not going to walk away from this op," DiNozzo warned. The tone carried an edge, sharp enough to act as a warning.

A sore spot, then. But why?

"I know," Gibbs agreed good-naturedly.

The mild tone acted like a spark to gunpowder. Instantly, DiNozzo twisted to stare at him, a disturbingly dark emotion glittering in his eyes. "Shows what you know," Tony taunted, voice whisper soft. "I almost did. I sat in that interrogation room, while you tried to come up with a plan, and considered dropping it all. I could have left Maria to explain it to Macaluso. I could have let the whole mission fail. And you know what?" DiNozzo leaned forward, and grinning too-widely. With his rapidly bruising face and lightly bleeding lip, the expression was ghoulish. "It would have been easy."

_Aha._ The pieces fell into place, the dark emotion taking form as something recognizable.

Self loathing.

A well of it, far deeper than any one shame could possibly put in one man's eyes. Gibbs wondered where the bottom lay, then realized he didn't even want to know. But this particular pain…

This pain, he might be able to put at rest.

Gibbs shrugged. "You didn't."

The feral grin vanished. The tormented light faded from DiNozzo's eyes, to be replaced by a more familiar frustration. "I could have. I thought about it, damn it! Don't you get it? I actually considered it."

Gibbs laughed, a short huff of air laced with certainty. "You wouldn't have."

DiNozzo glared. "How the hell do you know?"

"Because you didn't, DiNozzo."

"And it's just that simple." Disbelief colored the detective's speech.

Gibbs inclined his head. "Sometimes."

The word hung in the air between them. DiNozzo stared at him mutely. Finally, he shook his head. "You're a strange man, Gibbs."

Gibbs smiled faintly, eyes tracking the movement of the officers as they walked back and forth outside. They had to be nearing the end of the guns, by now.

DiNozzo didn't have much time left.

The thought, meant to refer simply to the detective's schedule, echoed forebodingly in his mind. Chilled in spite of himself, Gibbs tried to dismiss the phrase. But it lingered against his will, trying to warp into a prophecy.

"I'll be alright." As if in answer to his thoughts, DiNozzo spoke.

Startled, Gibbs turned to look at the younger man. DiNozzo's face was completely serious. Calm. He didn't smile, but there was an openness to his expression—an almost childlike sort of innocence—that Gibbs had never seen before.

"Why'd you take the assignment?"

The words came out without his meaning them to, and the impression of innocence vanished completely as DiNozzo flashed a smile.

"Didn't have anything better to do."

The flippant response was almost a relief. "Yeah. You're lying," Gibbs said bluntly.

"It's true," DiNozzo said casually. "Nothing but chasing women and low-life crooks. Eating pizza. Watching movies. Stupid things. Not much to look at, Gibbs."

Honesty to avoid honesty. Not a bad tactic—and Gibbs was a skilled enough liar to have employed it himself—but he could feel the longing just under the surface of the simple words. _A life, DiNozzo. You had a life to live._ "Not why you took it."

For the briefest moment, the detective hesitated. But his words, when they came, were firm and mixed again with that unsettling forthrightness. "No. It's not. But it doesn't matter why I took it. I made a choice. It was mine to make."

He was wrong. It did matter why. It mattered immeasurably, if the reasons were what Gibbs suspected.

But DiNozzo was right, too.

In some ways—the most important ways—it made no difference at all.

"I get the idea," Gibbs said slowly, "That you might be looking for a change of pace when this job is over. If you're ever stopping through DC, DiNozzo, give me a call. I might be able to find you something."

The words sounded foreign to his own ears. And what was he doing? There was no way he could saddle anyone on the force with this loud-mouthed, quicksilver smart-ass.

And he sure as hell didn't want DiNozzo on his own team.

Did he?

"My friends call me Tony." The words sounded stiff, like DiNozzo had forced them out against his better judgment. Gibbs chanced a look at the other man, and almost flinched at the raw vulnerability he saw there. DiNozzo's expression was almost pathetically hopeful, and even as Gibbs felt a rush of pleasure at the gesture of trust, it was wiped away by a spurt of anger.

He didn't want to be depended on.

He wasn't _fit_ to be depended on. Particularly not by young detectives whose scars might even outweigh his own. If DiNozzo couldn't see that, he was a idiot.

But neither could Gibbs find it in himself to add another hurt to DiNozzo's store just now.

He'd be a bastard again some other day.

"That so, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked wryly, taking refuge in banter. "Do you tell your friends that they're ugly and bigheaded?"

Immediately, DiNozzo's eyes lit with mischief. "Every now and then. But you know, now that I see you in person, I take it back. Again. Your head _is_ actually kind of pretty. Not classically beautiful, but you have your own certain…something. Kind of a—ow!"

The yelp was satisfying enough to far outweigh the sting in his palm.

DiNozzo gaped, holding his hand to the back of his head.

"You just _slapped_ me."

The temptation had been too hard to resist. Gibbs swallowed a smirk at the indignant tone. "You wouldn't shut up."

"I could slap you back," DiNozzo warned. "Don't think I wouldn't."

Gibbs shrugged. He was treading dangerous waters here. Any act of aggression on his side, and DiNozzo would take it as a matter of pride, rather than a simple correction.

_Tap tap._ An officer rapped on Gibbs's window, jerking his head meaningfully towards the back of the truck. Gibbs nodded sharply, acknowledging the message.

It was time to go.

"I take it back," DiNozzo said, even as he reached for the door handle. Fortunately, he now sounded bewildered rather than tense. "You're not just strange. You're crazy."

"Time to go, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, ignoring the comment. "Got a psycho waiting up for you."

The detective laughed, shaking his head rapidly—as though to dispel water. "Right," he muttered, swinging the door open. "Well, good luck, then. Try not to crack anyone's skulls open."

"Never do. I only hit people with hard heads, DiNozzo," Gibbs retorted. The younger man made a face as the door slammed shut.

Gibbs watched as DiNozzo made his way across the alleyway, stopping in his truck just long enough to give a jaunty wave before hitting the gas.

The agent sat in silence as the detective's vehicle sped away, waiting until it was a speck in the distance. Only then did Gibbs turn the key, and his only thought was not a prayer, but something like it:

_Give 'em hell, Tony._

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Author's Note: Okay, I know some of you guys were expecting some real whumpage, but I'd never planned to show it here. There's no literary point to showing it here—with my plot, anyway—and even I'm not **that** cruel. Don't worry, though. You'll get your whump later. ;)

So, what do you think? Is this the last Gibbs sees of Tony until the end of the mission? We are approaching the end of the story…albeit slowly…

By the way, thanks to all of you who reviewed, favorited, or put my story on alert. **Over 200 reviews and alerts!** This calls for a celebration! :D Also, to those of you who volunteered to read my "dark" chapters—thank you so much! I accepted a volunteer a while ago, but I'll keep you all in mind. :) Thanks to the well-wishers, too—I returned from France on Monday, and it was an amazing trip. I learned so much!


	12. Between Love and Desire

**CHAPTER WARNINGS**_:_** Strongly T for non-graphic descriptions of torture, mild sexual references, language, and dark themes.**

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"_And I know this _

_Is a just a beautiful illusion,_

_A case of the confusion,_

_Between love and desire…"_

—_If I Didn't Know Any Better_ by Alison Krauss

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"I must say, Florentino, I am impressed."

Macaluso's teeth flashed in a smile, gleaming like a beacon in the sparsely lit room. Leaning forward with a faint huff of exertion, he topped off Tony's glass.

Tony waited until the last drop fell—the rich red hue reminding him disconcertingly of blood—before reaching to grab it, accepting both wine and praise with a twisted smile.

Macaluso eased into his chair, and took a hearty swallow from his own glass. As always, here in his own quarters, the mafia boss displayed a casualness that was as disturbing in its familiarity as it was comforting in its implications. That Macaluso was so relaxed around him was encouraging, especially now. But as for the idea of being considered a friend…

Bile rose in Tony's throat, turning the priceless Barolo rancid on his tongue.

God help him from ever being worthy of the title.

Oblivious to his companion's dark thoughts, Macaluso tilted his goblet. A faint smile hovered on his lips as he studied the drink. "I have a personal weakness for Chianti. It has a delightfully refined flavor. But Barolo…Barolo is unmatched. 'The king of wines'," Macaluso quoted, gaze locked on the gently spinning liquid. "Expensive, but worth every penny. I had been planning to wait until my birthday to open it, but…" He shrugged, the movement elegant. "Your accomplishments are worthy of celebration. It was well done. And the prices were excellent. You must be quite the business man."

Tony inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment. Taking a cautious sip from his glass, he grimaced as the wine trickled past his split lip, sinking into the cut.

Macaluso caught the expression. Instantly, his demeanor shifted. "I apologize for that, Tony. Giordano, Bianchi…they are good men, but they sometimes get carried away with their loyalty to me. I never intended for the…damage to be so…extensive."

A bald-faced lie, and they both knew it. For a second rage made Tony's hand shake. He was tired of being manipulated, of being petted one minute and slapped the next. Tony forced a smile, disregarding the twinges of pain in his swollen face. Two days after his "meet" with Gibbs, his bruises were now flamboyantly purple, and still painful to the touch.

Let Macaluso toy with those vulnerable enough to believe him. _He_ was going to take down the sick bastard if it was the last thing he ever did.

"I just hope I'll have the opportunity to demonstrate my own loyalty to you," Tony countered smoothly. A lie for a lie, a half-truth for a half-truth. It was a delicate business. Macaluso might excuse a hint of resentment, if it was directed purely towards his cohorts, but anything more risked telegraphing that Tony hadn't gotten the message. Complete nonchalance, on the other hand, was as ludicrous for Antonio Florentino as it was for Tony DiNozzo, and Macaluso would know it.

Better to dodge the question entirely—and hope the mafia boss would let him get away with it.

"Is that so." The words fell from Macaluso's lips slowly, almost cloyingly. "Is that so."

Uneasiness at the strange tone rippled through the younger man. Tony matched Macaluso's oily smile with an empty one of his own, and ignored the emotion. There was never anything comfortable about being around the other man. Today had no reason to be different. "Yes, sir."

"Well, my friend, you're in luck." Suddenly brisk, Macaluso rose, placing his half-empty glass on the coffee table. It wobbled, threatening to fall, but held. Tony placed his own still-full drink next to it, fighting a frown.

Why open up a bottle of priceless wine, then leave it barely touched?

Twisting in place, Tony darted a glance at the doorway. A dark-haired man, vaguely familiar, stared back at him expressionlessly. Provenza? Gervio? Tony couldn't recall, but he hadn't been there at the start of the conversation. A messenger?

"I've just received some very important news." Macaluso said, and he was smiling again, as if in confirmation. "An old friend of mine has just decided to pay us a visit. I think you should come along."

The statement was an order, but the investigator in Tony couldn't help probing further. "A friend?"

Macaluso's sharp-edged grin was his only answer.

It was answer enough.

Not a friend at all. What that meant, however…

"So where are we going?" Tony probed as he stood up, stretching casually and fighting a wince as pummeled skin stretched.

Macaluso's breath huffed in a laugh. "So curious, Tony. But I am afraid I must ask something of you."

Tony's eyebrow rose. That'd didn't sound good. "What's that?"

A wad of cloth thumped into his lap.

"I'm afraid I must ask you to wear that blindfold, just on the journey over. I would have let you see, but," Macaluso shrugged lightly, "With recent indiscretions…"

So the rift was not yet healed.

Tony stiffened, but smiled through his anger. _Damn you, Keyes. I might have made a break today._ "Gotcha."

He'd have to keep his ears open. That was all.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The car jerked to a stop.

Tony stared against his closed lids and waited, hopefully, for one of Macaluso's men to remove his blindfold.

The door flung upon instead. Someone grabbed his arm—the messenger Ghervio, or the hatchet-faced, silent Arcuni—pulling him from the car.

"Thanks, buddy," Tony said cheerfully, patting his helper's arm overenthusiastically. Gravel crunched as they walked. "Don't let me fall. If I damage another suit, Maria's going to kill me."

"She does your mending?" Macaluso sounded surprised, and amused. "She must like you. I remember bickering with her every time I ripped my clothes when we were small. I did not want to my mother to scold me, of course. But Maria would always refuse to mend them until I bribed her."

It was impossible to imagine Macaluso as a child. "What'd you give her?"

A laugh. "When she was younger…what are they called? Piggy-back rides. When she was older, I would let her hang out with her brother and I. We pretended to hate it, but every cops and robbers game is better with a damsel in need of protection."

So all kids, even criminals in training, played cops and robbers.

Tony wondered if they'd ever grown out of it.

The earsplitting creak of an door left closed too long interrupted his musings.

Tony stumbled over the threshold. The rough hand on his elbow steadied him, then let go. The door pulled closed behind him with the heavy _thud_ of metal.

"Here we are." Macaluso's voice sounded out, unexpectedly close. A moment's tightness, and the blindfold slipped off Tony's face, the rough fabric brushing against his tender jaw.

All he saw was darkness. Tony closed his eyes against a sudden irrational fear of blindness, and waited. A soft click echoed through the room. Light flashed, dimly illuminating concrete walls and a rickety wooden staircase, winding its way down into blackness.

Tony grimaced as his eyes watered, and pasted on a cheeky smile. "Nice place you've got here. Not exactly homey, but it's definitely got the whole dark-dungeon vibe going on."

There was a startled snort, rough and hurriedly stifled. Not Macaluso. Tony twisted around, eyebrow raised, but the two men avoided his gaze. Reluctant to appreciate his humor, or something worse? Trepidation spiked in his gut, settling slowly into a churning uneasiness that Macaluso's easy laugh did nothing to disperse.

"Come, Florentino. Our guest is waiting."

Reluctantly, Tony fell into step behind the Mafia boss, wincing as the wooden step shuddered beneath his feet. At least if it collapsed, he thought privately, he'd take Macaluso down too; but the thought was small comfort. A hidden basement might be better than a gutter, but a death by shoddy staircases was too lame even to contemplate.

Macaluso halted abruptly at the base of the steps, in front of second door. Heaving an exaggerated sigh of relief, Tony stepped off the final stair, and shivered. Cold air rose off the concrete walls in waves, cutting through Tony's suit jacket as easily as a knife through smoke. A scent was detectable down here, distinct but too faint to pin down—something metallic, like rusting pipes.

Keys jingled. The door swung open, dragging slowly across the pitted floor. Suddenly the smell was rank and overpowering, and Tony wanted nothing better than to retch, and retch without stopping—because he knew this scent, because the stench of blood and vomit, fear and waste was one even cops never grew truly used to—because he should have (_didn't want to, hadn't_) anticipated this—

_God._

The door slammed shut. Stumbling slightly, Tony moved towards the figure leaning against the wall. A man, that much was clear; brown-haired and motionless, save for the slight rise and fall of his bare, darkly bruised torso. Chains, the shiny silver of iron dulled by blood, linked limp wrists to the wall.

_Breathing._ Not dead.

Relief, as potent as any drug and equally fleeting, flooded through the detective. Somehow Tony forced all expression from his face, even as his heart beat out of control.

What the _hell _was he supposed to do?

"Who's your friend?" By some miracle, the words came out…calm. Indifferent.

"You don't recognize him?" Macaluso came to stand next to him, resting a warm hand on the younger man's shoulder. The words were soft, almost affectionate. Comforting.

Tony had never wanted to hit him more.

"You and I were waiting for him at the café," the Mafia boss continued, voice lilting. Tony stared at the crumpled figure, memory rising like a wave.

_We are waiting for a friend. _

"I nearly had him then." The long fingers tightened. "He stole from me, Tony. I trusted him, and he stole from me. He betrayed me." Something dark crept into the smooth voice. "No one betrays me."

The hairs on the back of Tony's neck lifted. Cloth rustled behind them—an uneasy movement, quickly stifled. At the sound, Macaluso's hand clamped down on his shoulder like a vice.

"Don't ever betray me, Florentino."

The whisper carried a promise. _If you do…_

Against the wall, the captive's legs were twisted underneath him at an impossible angle. Broken. Tony looked up into hard eyes, and smiled.

"Never."

_Always, you sick bastard._

Macaluso's fingers slid upward, brushing against the side of his throat in what was almost a caress. "Good." The hand lowered, leaving a lingering sense of sickness in Tony's stomach. "Wake him up!"

The last was a command. Arcuni stepped forward, homely face without expression. Tony looked away as he raised his hand.

_Smack._

The dull sound of flesh striking flesh was drowned about the rattling of chains. A low groan sounded, followed by a volley of wet coughs. Wincing, Tony glanced up against his will, and stopped breathing. Blue eyes set in a youthful face, dark with terror, locked onto his in a silent plea.

Macaluso crouched down, elegant as always in his well-fitting suit. Instantly the man cowered backward, his trembling visible even feet away.

"Nothing to say?" The Mafia boss's voice was velvet soft. "That's disappointing, Charlie."

"I didn't—" The hoarse whisper was almost inaudible, but Macaluso's face tightened. Arcuni's foot lashed out, striking Charlie in the leg. The captive screamed, an animalistic sound, rocking back and forth.

"Don't lie to me, Charlie!"

The man's breath came in choking sobs. Desperately, Tony looked back and forth at the three men. He'd never be able to take them all, and if he'd tried he'd break his cover.

There was _nothing_ he could do.

"Answer me!" Another scream, louder this time.

Sickened, Tony felt reflexively for his gun, but encountered only empty space. Struggling with the need to act, the detective clenched his fists. Julia's lifeless face floated into his mind, eyes vacant, lips cherry red from internal bleeding. He'd never avenge her—never avenge any of them—if he gave himself away now. Macaluso would keep on killing, bloodshed without end, and even Watson wouldn't be willing to risk another cop in Operation Hawkeye.

"Do you think you can manipulate me? _Fesso_!"

_Crack._ The unmistakable snap of a finger pressed too far, and Charlie's agonized wail tore through the room.

Tony stood stock still, frozen. If he acted now—if he got caught—it would destroy everything they'd worked so hard for. He would fail them all.

It made no difference.

He could not stand by for this.

Shaking with tension, Tony slid his hand into his pocket. His fingers closed around cold metal—a pocketknife. A laughably inadequate weapon against three men with guns, but it might just be enough to take out one person, if he was lucky.

_As if he was ever that lucky._

"Tony, come here, please."

Suddenly, the detective became aware that the screams had stopped. In the background, Charlie wept, mouth open in a grimace of agony. Slowly, Tony moved toward Macaluso, crouching down beside him. Cautiously, he removed his hand from his pocket. _Wait._

He'd need the element of surprise.

Macaluso's elegant hands were flecked with red, but his words held as much honey as ever. "Do you value la Famiglia?"

A terrible desire to laugh built in Tony's throat. Family, of any sort, had always existed to stab him in the back. "More than anything," Tony whispered, sounding painfully sincere even to his own ears.

Whatever its other failings, family had taught him how to lie.

"This man threatened the Famiglia. He cares nothing for loyalty, for the bonds of trust. He tears us apart. I cannot let that happen, do you understand? I have men to look out for, men and their wives and their children. He threatens their wellbeing. They are innocents, Florentino. You and me, we are not innocents. Neither is Arcuni. Neither is Ghervio. Nor Giordano, nor Bianchi, nor your uncle. But we act to protect the innocents, Tony. Men like Charlie act only for themselves."

_Liar. _"Yeah." Tony swallowed, hard, as bile rose in his throat. "Yeah, I understand."

"You don't have to like doing it, Tony. No one likes it. I loathe it with everything in me. But I will do it, because we are protecting something that matters. You are still young—you cannot fathom how young you seem to me, for all that you are too clever by half—and so I will do, for now, it so you need not. But someday, it will be your responsibility. Do you think you can do it?"

Macaluso would expect excitement as well as revulsion. "Yes." It came out as barely more than a breath, and Macaluso's face hardened.

"Show me."

Surreptitiously, Tony inched closer to the Mafia boss, trying to ignore Charlie's pitiful sobs. At this angle, he could just see the handle of Macaluso's gun. _If he reached… _

He raised his head to meet the other man's gaze straight on. "What do you want me to do?"

Macaluso twisted sideways, jacket shifting to cover the gun.

_Shit._

"Nothing more than he deserves," Macaluso promised, smile melancholy. In the soft light, his eyes glimmered strangely. "Nothing more than he asked for."

Somewhere, water dripped. With a chilling scrape of metal on metal, Macaluso unsheathed his knife. The blade shone like liquid silver as he placed it in the detective's hand.

"Slit his throat."

Tony's fingers clamped around the hilt, knuckles turning white with the fierceness of his grip. Body wire taut, Tony leaned toward Charlie, knife extended. Macaluso must never see it coming…but in a moment, in a moment…

The Mafia boss stepped backward.

Shit, shit, _shit! _

Panicking, Tony stalled by kneeling, taking care not to let his pants absorb the drops of blood spattering the floor. At this distance, he'd be peppered with slugs the moment he touched Macaluso, and the victim would still die. He had to get the Mafia boss closer—but how?

Realization hit like a flash. Death wouldn't be enough.

Macaluso would want to _see._

Tony slid sideways deliberately, blocking the older man's view.

Macaluso took a half step forward. "Do it," he ordered.

He still wasn't close enough. Charlie whimpered in the back of his throat, jerking backward. Tony leaned forward, resting the blade at the base of the captive's neck.

_Just…one…more…step…_

"Do it!" Macaluso snapped, the harsh tone a warning. Tony's nerves screamed to obey, but the order was unthinkable.

Yet he'd never save the man if he attacked now.

He stared into the stranger's wide blue eyes, letting them damn him to hell and back for what he was about to do.

_I'm sorry._

It was the only way he could think of to save them both.

Heaving a deep breath, Tony dragged the blade across the base of Charlie's neck.

A shallow cut, only; deep enough to draw blood but do no real damage. Still the captive yelled, and Tony lifted the pressure just slightly, readying himself to attack, because Macaluso would never be more distracted than he was now—

"Stop!"

Startled, Tony let the blade clatter to the floor.

"Good, Florentino." The mobster's voice was suffused with pleasure. "I think our friend's had enough for now."

Tony stumbled to his feet, scrabbling for the blade with fingers that no longer seemed to work. _Today. _That gave him time. Hope, dizzyingly strong, rose within him. If he went home—if Macaluso let him leave without a blindfold—he could contact Watson, and tell him where to go.

They could save this man, and take Macaluso down.

Long fingers lifted up his jaw; the knife was tugged gently from his grip. "Look at me, Tony," the Mafia boss ordered kindly. Tiny lines, framing his eyes, crinkled in a smile. "I'm proud of you. Go to your apartment, eat Maria's cooking, and get some rest. Tomorrow we'll be going on a trip, and it is going to be a long drive."

Macaluso released him. Swallowing nausea, Tony stepped away, and tried for a smile. It felt disjointed, mismatched with his face. "Yes, sir."

"Ghervio, take Florentino home. Oh, and one more thing. Tony?"

Tony turned.

"Cover your ears."

Macaluso whipped out his gun. Realization dawned too late. The shot rang out, loud as thunder, and Tony ducked automatically.

Then it was over.

The world was ringing. Tony straightened, horrified.

Even in death, Charlie's wide blue eyes still pled for mercy.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tony stumbled over the doorstep of the apartment lobby, garnering a suspicious stare from the pretty blond receptionist. Any other day, he would have flirted to smooth things over—she probably thought his clumsiness was born of alcohol, which wasn't an impression he wanted to encourage with young, single females.

Today he didn't give a damn. Tony matched her, look for look, jaw tight and eyes hard, until she dropped her gaze. Flustered. Tony kept his eyes locked on her while her cheeks flared red, relishing the sense of punishing her for her misconceptions. She, who dared to assume that she knew one goddamned thing about anything, closed up in a cushy job in the nice part of town, with eyes that had never seen a dead man gushing arterial blood from a gunshot hole in what was left of his neck.

Disturbed by his own vindictiveness, Tony put his head down and jammed his thumb onto the elevator button. Pain flared; he shook it out, swearing loudly. Doubtless the receptionist was still disapproving, but he didn't dare look at her again to see.

She was just a girl. Hopelessly innocent, but he was glad of that, he knew—or he would be, when he remembered how to feel glad about anything. Tony leaned his head against the wall, screwing his eyes shut.

He'd failed on so many levels.

The elevator _dinged_, the strident chime barely audible above the low-level buzzing in his ears. To Tony's relief, the room was empty. If someone made him engage in small talk, he didn't even want to imagine what he'd say.

The metal doors slid closed. Tony pressed the button for level three, and for a moment held perfectly still, exhaling slowly.

_Damn them all._

Tony slammed his palm into the wall. The shock traveled up his arm; cursing, the detective gripped his shoulder. Breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating, Tony kicked the wall.

The resulting bang was almost as satisfying as the flair of pain in his foot.

The elevator steadied, doors flying open to reveal a serene-faced old lady, clinging to her walker. Hugging his shoulder, Tony sidled past, trying to ignore her concerned, wondering expression.

He needed somewhere private. Safe. The apartment was the obvious choice—they'd swept it for bugs just this morning—and yet…

Maria. Maria, with the sweet smile and the gentle hands and the too-sympathetic words. She'd be there, a moment's refuge from the darkness, offering comfort and kindness.

He knew too damned well that he deserved neither.

The third floor boasted a tiny balcony, all but useless in Philly's cold November winds. Bracing himself, Tony stepped out into the night.

The blast took his breath away. Coldness ripped through him, tearing away even the illusion of warmth. Tony sank into a chair. The metal seared through his jacket, but he didn't flinch. Gingerly, he reached into his pocket, extracting a slim cell.

A secure line, never before used. The only thing he had to thank Keyes for—other than bruises. He'd had one before, of course; but calling the same number frequently left a call history too suspicious to risk.

But now…

Dialing, Tony stared across the sparkling city lights.

"DiNozzo!"

He'd never been so glad to hear Watson's voice in his life.

"Hey, Sergeant," Tony said evenly.

"Is everything alright?" The words were sharp—sharper, even, than usual. With concern, probably.

"My cover's intact. Maria's fine."

A sigh. "Why'd you call?

Tony gripped the chair with one hand, ignoring the way it burned his fingers. "Tonight didn't go exactly as I hoped it would."

"How not?" Sharpness, again.

"Well. Well, let's put it this way. Murphy was a wise man."

"I heard he was an optimist."

A joke. A spectacularly inappropriate joke, from Watson, of all people. Tony laughed. The sound was raw and wild—uncontrollable, bordering on unhinged. The line went silent.

"DiNozzo?"

The phone slid from him fingers, dropping onto the tiles below. Tony buried his face in his hands, breath hitching.

"Detective!"

Pinpricks stung his eyes. Tony sucked in air until his lungs hurt, and scrabbled one-handed for his cell.

"Detective, are you there?"

Slowly Tony's numb fingers found the phone. The words came in a rush.

"A man's dead, Watson. Macaluso shot him. I couldn't stop it. I don't know where you're going to find the body, but his name's Charlie. He stole from Macaluso. That's all I know."

"_Shit_."

Again, abruptly, the insane urge to laugh. "Yeah, that's about what I thought."

"Goddamn it, DiNozzo." Watson's exhale was audible. "Can you at least give us a crime scene?"

"I can't."

"Why the hell not?" Exasperation filled his voice.

"I was blindfolded," Tony snarled, struggling not to chuck the phone off the balcony. "On the way there, on the way back. Why can't I tell you? I don't frickin' know where I was, Sergeant!"

Watson swore. "Nothing? No sounds?"

"It's within a twenty-five minute drive from Macaluso's house," Tony said shortly. "Could be less if they drove around for a while. The outside door's metal, the walls are concrete. There's wooden steps and another door underground, inside. Something industrial. Secluded. We parked in a gravel parking lot. That's all I know."

"We'll start searching." Suddenly Watson's voice was exhausted, and somewhere within Tony felt a stirring of sympathy.

"If you find it, Macaluso will suspect me."

Watson heaved another sigh, but he couldn't deny it. They both knew it was true. "What do you want us to do, DiNozzo?"

"He's taking me on a trip tomorrow," Tony said, the words coming out of him slowly. "Maybe I'm wrong, I think it's to Baltimore. You'll have more freedom. If you find the place, call me. Pretend it's a wrong number. I'll find a way to disappear."

The pause was long. Tony waited, half expecting a comment about how the risk was too high to take.

It never came.

"It's your call," Watson replied instead. "Alright, Detective. I'll get to work. Good luck."

"Good luck," Tony echoed, just as the line went dead. Frowning for reasons he couldn't explain, he tucked the phone into his pocket and gazed up at the night sky.

Even the stars looked cold.

Tony shivered violently as the wind rose.

It felt almost like a purging.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The apartment was shrouded in darkness. Tony paused as the light from the hallway illuminated a swathe of tile.

Maria always left the lights on for him.

Tony's heart quickened; reaching out his hand, he flicked on the lights. The kitchen was untended, full of unwashed dishes piled up in miniature mountains. A small salad lay at Maria's place, untouched.

Something was wrong.

"Maria?"

His voice rang through the room.

There was no answer.

"Maria!" A little louder this time.

Silence.

Tony reached into the kitchen draw for the gun Macaluso never let him carry, and flipped off the safety with a click. "Maria!" Fear made his voice desperate. Gun raised, he slipped into the dining room.

_Clear._ "Maria!"

Quick as a flash, he moved into bedroom, throwing on the lights. The bed was still made, untouched since this morning.

But the bathroom door was closed.

Creeping forward, Tony flung the door open.

And lowered his gun.

Maria perched on the edge of the tub, back towards the door. A soft white towel draped loosely around her slender body. Long dark hair, sleek even when wet, stretched across her delicate shoulders. A can of shaving cream and a razor lay abandoned by her feet.

Anger, born of relief but hot enough to boil. Tony flicked on the safety, and dropped the gun on the counter. "Why didn't you—"

"I thought you weren't coming back."

Maria's voice, husky with misery, stopped him mid-sentence.

Fury faded, replaced by exhaustion. Tony rested a hand on the sink, and bowed his head.

"I didn't know if Mike would accept the guns. It's impossible to tell with him. He's always been unpredictable, even as a child. The only thing I knew was that he would kill you in a instant if he wanted to." Still facing away, Maria wrapped golden arms around her chest. The towel slipped downwards, baring a slender waist and the smooth expanse of her back. "He often wants to. He killed my brother without a second thought."

"I'm sorry," Tony whispered. The words fell into silence.

"Every time you meet with him, I know that maybe you'll never walk back through that door. And so do you."

Tony said nothing.

"I know how it tears you apart. Don't think I don't see it. I'm no detective, but we women know pain when we see it." She trailed a hand through the water, still not turning around.

"All I've ever wanted was to help you." Yearning, too sharp for mere friendship, laced every word, piercing him. "But you won't let me. So strong. So sure of what's right." For the first time, her voice turned bitter. "So afraid you'll break my heart. But I'm not a child, Anthony. I'm not an innocent. I never asked you to love me. If we survive this, I'd never expect you to stay. I only wanted to make something beautiful out of all this. But you would never let me."

Tony stood there silently, letting her grief and her disappointment sink deep within him, like a stone into a pool, until it was the only thing he could feel.

As the silence stretched, Maria twisted around. Her cheeks were streaked with mascara, but her full lips were set. Then her gaze met his.

The bitterness vanished. "Tony," she gasped, rising immediately. "What's the matter?"

Her sympathy cut his defenses to ribbons. Tony closed his eyes.

Soft footsteps halted front of him. Maria's warm hand rested against his neck, the touch feather light, for a moment. Her arms wrapped around him in a gentle embrace, banishing the cold of the balcony.

"It's alright, Tony," she whispered, face against his chest. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

He could feel her breasts pressed against his waist through the towel. Tony breathed in, inhaling the flowery scent of her shampoo. Heat flooded through his veins. He opened his eyes.

Maria's brown eyes darted up to meet his. Reading his expression, she stilled, inhaling sharply. Slowly, Tony lowered his head, pressing lingering lips against her forehead, and then to the tip of her nose.

Maria's hands ran up and down his arms, inciting sparks. Tilting his head, Tony brushed her lips with his, then pressed them together. Gently, he traced the contours of her back. She shivered, teasing the inner edge of his lip with her tongue as his fingers slid upward.

When his hand found the soft swell of her breast, he found he no longer had the strength to resist.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Chapter Notes: Hi, everyone! My longest chapter yet; almost 5,000 words. I hope you enjoyed—though maybe enjoyed isn't the right word, considering the darkness of this chapter. I hope you found it suspenseful and tastefully handled, at any rate. :) I tried to avoid making it too graphic. I hope the harsher language was okay…the scenes seemed to call for it, but I don't prefer to have it in there. Let me know what you think!

Thank you all so much for your support and your patience with my hiatus! :D Sorry about that. However, last night I stayed up to 4:30 (0_0 !) so I wouldn't interrupt the flow of the last few scenes, so, you see, I'm really quite devoted. ;) Your reviews, hits, favorites, alerts, etc, make me so happy. Also, thanks to those people (whomever you are) who added A Question of Honor to different communities. It's in 5 now! Eek!

Fesso, by the way, is an (offensive) Italian word for idiot.


	13. The Brilliant Light of Morning

**Chapter Warnings: Language and (very) mild sexual references.**

"_Night, lift up the shades_

_Let in the brilliant light of morning_

_But steady there now_

_For I am weak and starving for mercy…"_

—_Stupid_ by Sarah McLachlan

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

At this early hour, the hotel restaurant was empty of patrons, and even the staff members looked groggy. Gibbs swallowed a scalding mouthful of the darkest coffee he'd been able to find, and sighed with satisfaction.

Peace and quiet, at last.

Thin hotel walls had to be a specialized form of torture. Between the staccato blasts of mind-numbing pop music from across the hall, and the earsplitting shrieks of too many preschoolers left to their own devices, it was a wonder he'd slept at all. Gibbs gulped another mouthful, disregarding the way it burned his throat on the way down. He was slipping. Once upon a time he'd been able to sleep anywhere, through anything.

The agent smiled, the twist of his lips wry. He knew better than to think he'd actually lost the skill. Some training was forged in fire, and successful marines learned to grab sleep whenever possible. But somehow, it was easier to blame insomnia on excessive noise than acknowledge he was conflicted.

Forehead puckering in a frown, Gibbs lowered the cup, placing it on the glass-topped table. Fingerprints—some the wide smears of adult hands, some the tiny spots of overenthusiastic little fingers—were scattered across the transparent surface. For a moment, the agent itched to dust them—to discover the owners' stories, sift through their minds, unearth their secrets.

Like he hadn't unearthed DiNozzo's.

The bleary-eyed busboy, half-heartedly wiping tables with a cloth that had seen better—and cleaner—days, met Gibbs's stormy gaze and started visibly, dropping the rag. The agent raised his eyebrows; blushing, the youth bent to retrieve it, but Gibbs' mind was already far away.

It was time to go home. The case might still be open, but he could do nothing here. Until Macaluso finally fell, Petty Officer Chaplin would simply have to remain unavenged. Frustrating, for certain—few things vexed Gibbs more than unfinished business—but unavoidable. At least in DC he could investigate Chaplin's acquaintances further, just to be certain, even though his gut told him looking elsewhere was futile.

And yet…

DiNozzo's mocking smile and hopeful eyes swam into his field of vision. Gibbs shoved away from the table, slamming a tip onto the cold surface.

_Damn it all._

Still scowling, Gibbs brushed past a chattering group of patrons and entered the lobby. The kid had made his choice. If the road to his decision had been paved by factors beyond his control, it was far too late to change that now.

And yet.

The agent hesitated, hand on his pocket. Morrow wouldn't be expecting an update until at least noon. If he waited…

If he waited another few hours, it would make no difference for the case.

But it might make a difference for Tony.

Gibbs tugged out his phone, feeling something like resignation.

He knew one person who might be able to give him the truth about DiNozzo.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Awareness returned slowly. Floating in a haze of warmth, Tony curled tighter into the softness of his blankets. Brightness pressed against his closed lids, burning his vision red. Tony screwed his eyes shut, draping an arm across his face.

A feminine laugh, hurriedly stifled.

Tony buried his face into his pillow at the sound, letting out a low, involuntary moan. A hand ghosted over his face, brushing against his cheek, before settling on the nape of his neck.

The touch was comforting. Familiar. Memory returned in a rush, a flood of misery, embarrassment and satisfaction. The detective dragged himself upright, struggling to sort through the images.

"Morning, sweetheart."

Tony peeled his eyes open. Filtered light trickled through the curtains, illuminating Maria's auburn-tinted hair and coffee eyes. Flashes of waking repeatedly in the dark, panicked and disoriented, to warm arms and repeated whispers—that he was alright, that everything was fine—surged to the forefront of his mind.

Tony swallowed hard, burying the impressions by raking his eyes over Maria's golden curves, only partially obscured by her sheer nightgown. "Morning," he said huskily, unable to hold back a grin when she blushed at his bold appraisal.

It was nice to know he hadn't lost his touch. At the phrase, a verydifferent memory of Maria came to mind, and his grin widened.

No, he hadn't lost his touch at all.

He leaned in, trailing a finger over the unmarked skin of her calf. _This_ flawless expanse had never felt the tear of a knife, never been pierced by the shards of a broken bone.

_For now._

The morbid thought was like an icy shower. Maria shivered, leaning closer, but the moment was broken. Tony retracted his hand abruptly, taking refuge in scratching his neck to avoid meeting her gaze.

What was he _doing?_

"So," Maria said softly, and for one horrible, hollow moment Tony braced himself for another outpouring of blame. But the words, when they came, were brisk.

"How do pancakes sound?"

Completely wrong-footed, Tony stared. The brunette's features were serene—unruffled.

Contented.

Tony's heart sank, stopping somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach. "Maria—"

Something behind the large eyes flashed, but the expression didn't change. "Shhh," she murmured, pressing a finger against his lips. The touch made his skin tingle, and Tony's strangled protest died in his throat.

"Get dressed. I'll have some on the griddle in a few minutes."

Maria stepped away, smile still firmly in place.

The silence was instantly suffocating. Tony shoved back the covers, grimacing as he moved ribs still slightly sore from Giordano and Bianchi's attentions.

He'd screwed up royally this time. Tony dragged on a shirt, buttoning it mechanically. Really, there must be some sort of award for such across-the-board failure. It took talent to make so many goddamned misjudgments in one day. Viciously, the Italian jerked the expensive fabric into place.

If he never saw another gunshot wound in his life, it would be too soon. Tony's face felt pinched and sore, but the pain was nothing compared to the gaping chasm of regret. If he'd acted sooner, been cleverer, taken an opening, Charlie might not have died.

Tony sank down on the bed, pulling on dress pants. Part of him knew better. Nothing short of a miracle could have removed the victim from Macaluso's torments.

_A miracle, like an armed undercover agent?_

The internal voice mocked him. Furious with it, and with himself, Tony shoved his way into his dress shoes, only lacing them properly through force of habit.

As for Maria…

At the memory, satisfaction flickered, and Tony sagged in defeat.

He couldn't even bring himself to regret it.

"Tony, could you come warm up the butter, please?"

The detective's lips curved, even as his forehead puckered in what might have been the start of a frown. She didn't need his help. As efficient as Maria was in the kitchen, Tony only ended up getting in her way on the—admittedly rare—occasions when he tried to assist. No; Maria simply didn't want him to be alone too long.

Tony's instincts rebelled against the control, but a fit of pique held no appeal in the face of exhaustion. And frankly…

He'd never wanted to be alone less.

Sighing, Tony pulled himself to his feet.

Maria winked at him suggestively, a minx in translucent chiffon. The steam from the pancakes carried a hint of pink to her golden cheeks and teased the tendrils around her face into ringlets.

Tony's answering smile was small, but automatic. Without really knowing why, he let his fingers trail against her bare shoulder. Maria's cheeks tinted red, making her dark eyes glisten in contrast.

The urge to kiss her was both sudden and unexpectedly strong.

Unnerved, Tony pulled back as though he'd been singed. Taking refuge in searching the fridge for the surprisingly elusive butter, the detective bit the inside of his lip. Hard.

_Get yourself under control._

The harsh command steadied him. His eyes found the stick before his fingers did—right on the shelf where Maria always kept it. Grimacing, Tony tossed the butter towards the counter.

On reflex, Maria snatched it midair. Instantly she was laughing, face alight. "I can't believe I caught that."

Frankly, neither could Tony—coordination wasn't her greatest strength. Self-preservation, of course, indicated that he shouldn't say so.

But then, he'd never been particularly good at that.

"Neither can I," Tony said, relinquishing his task, and taking possession of a chair. "You're kind of clumsy."

That earned his bicep a smack. "Be quiet." The retort was mild even for Maria, and he could hear the relief under the words. But she didn't acknowledge it, and suddenly gratitude swelled inside Tony's chest. There was nothing like normalcy for either of them.

But damned if it didn't feel good to pretend.

Tony yelped exaggeratedly, clutching vainly at his arm. Maria squeaked, hands instantly covering his. "I'm so sorry—I didn't realize—"

The detective burst out laughing.

Her second slap was much harder. "You _jerk_—"

Still laughing, Tony grabbed her hand, preventing further retaliation by pulling her against his back. She wiggled ineffectually, determined but starting to giggle, until her other hand found the base of his neck.

The tickling sensation was more than he could bear. Pinning his chin, Tony closed his left hand around her wrist, and tugged her closer, successfully stalemating them both. Laughter shook her curvy frame, trembling against his back. The steady _thump _of her pulse pressed against his ear, a delicate promise of life. Tony closed his eyes, memorizing the warmth of her caring.

_Thud. Thud thud. Thud._

The pattern of the self-assured knock was unmistakable, and Tony released her immediately, muscles going rigid. Their eyes met for a moment. Quickly, Maria switched off the griddle and vanished into the bedroom, shutting the door.

Pasting on a smile, Tony prepared to greet the devil.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sunlight glittered on the hood of his car, its winter harshness fading out the color to a nondescript gray. Gibbs squinted but didn't look away as it seared his vision.

So these were the webs that desperate men wove.

From his parking space, the exterior of the police department looked precisely as it ought to—institutionalized, tidy, bustling with cops fulfilling their duties. Honest. Upstanding.

Gibbs knew better, now.

Oh, it was probably true, at least in large part—Philly's average cop doubtless was an upstanding citizen, or at least a well-meaning one. But the higher-ups—Bridenn—and Sergeant Watson, most of all…

It wasn't that Gibbs didn't understand the temptation. He knew the overpowering flavor of revenge, knew that—aside from all his other murders— Macaluso had once slaughtered a police officer. Fury was to be expected; as was desperation, while the years stretched on without closure. A man with DiNozzo's unique qualifications must have seemed like a gift from heaven.

But Steve Kraut's earnest account had left no room for doubt. Unlike the frustratingly recalcitrant DiNozzo, Kraut had no compunction about sharing the details of how exactly Operation Hawkeye had come to fruition.

The story was not a pretty one.

They'd broken the kid down. Body by body, death by death, doing nothing to challenge Keyes' growing enmity, until even DiNozzo's formidable determination crumbled in the face of their tactics. Let Tony deny it—the agent knew he would try.

But Gibbs had seen the truth before he ever knew the cause.

DiNozzo might try to hide it—God knew the man was resilient, even now—but frantic laughter and flashes of rage and grief gave away the lie.

The kid was badly bruised in more ways than one.

Gibbs swallowed a long draught of cold coffee, pinning the station with narrowed eyes. Impulse urged him to march up to Watson's office and lay out his crimes.

Instinct stopped him. A man unfair enough to mold a young officer still mourning his partner's death into a weapon was not the sort to carelessly alienate. At least, not until Tony was out of harm's way. Then…

The smile was grim. Then he'd ensure Philly PD never saw fit to play that sort of game again.

Until then, it was time to go home.

The Agent's fingers rapped the steering wheel. Once. Twice. If DiNozzo suffered more from this…

There would be hell to pay.

Gibbs would make sure of it.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was surreal.

"Pass the strawberry syrup, Mike," Maria requested imperiously.

Across the breakfast table, Macaluso bowed from the waist, eyes twinkling. With a flourish, the Mafia boss presented his cousin with a small pitcher.

Of maple syrup.

"Mike," she complained, "I asked for strawberry. You know I hate maple."

"So sorry. I beg your pardon," Macaluso said formally, winking at Tony. The detective grinned emptily, watching the interchange with guarded eyes.

He had expected Macaluso to turn down Maria's breakfast invitation, airily extended to her cousin, in favor of a starting their trip. Instead, the older man had promptly agreed.

And breakfast had become a torment.

Macaluso carefully lifted the butter dish, and tried to hand it to Maria. She glared, hands on her hips. "Mike. Give me the syrup."

Her cousin raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment. "Syrup?" He lowered the butter, and picked up the stack of napkins. "You mean napkins, surely."

Maria lunged for the syrup, securing it before the man could stop her. Smirking, she drizzled red onto her pancake. "You lose."

Macaluso shrugged comically, favoring Tony with a chagrined look. "Once upon a time, I used to make her beg for it. But she still doesn't remember to say please."

"Once upon a time, I used to tell you exactly what I thought of you when you played that game," Maria countered serenely, dark gaze steady. "Remember? 'I hate you.'"

A shock traveled up Tony's spine. To his ears the quote rang of sincerity.

But Macaluso seemed to hear nothing. The laugh was hearty, filling the silence. Her cousin grinned, swinging to his feet. "So you did. So you did, _Topolina_."

"Times certainly have changed," Maria said, still smiling gently. Behind her, Macaluso patted her on the shoulder affectionately.

Tony stiffened. She was baring her throat to the wolves, speaking the raw truth, veiled only by Macaluso's false perceptions, to her enemy's face.

Maria's eyes were glacial.

Suddenly chilled, Tony averted his gaze. Perhaps these were the games one had to play to cope with years of pretending to love a brother's killer. But he couldn't help but wonder if she put too great a faith in Macaluso's blind spots.

"Well, Florentino," the Mafia boss said easily, "I think it is time you gathered your things."

"You're going somewhere?" Maria interrupted. "Tony, didn't you mention that we had plans today?"

_What _was she playing at?

"Plans?" Macaluso echoed, smiling slightly. "Is that so? Well, then, I have a solution. How would you feel about a trip to Baltimore?"

Maria beamed at him, a core of flint wrapped in layers of softness. "That sounds lovely. I'll go pack. I won't be long, I promise," she called over her shoulder.

_Damn you_, Tony cursed inwardly, unable to so much as scowl at her. _You're supposed to stay in Philly, you damned reckless fool. Philly, where if it goes wrong they can get you _out_!_

But he had no reason to say no, no recourse to undo her rashness. Tony grinned instead, giving in.

For now.

_You damned, damned fool._

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Steve Kraut signed another document with a flourish, humming to himself. In the mid-afternoon lull, the bullpen was stocked with bored officers, completing paperwork through half-lidded eyes. The advent of nightfall would bring crime in droves; but for now almost a third of the workforce was stranded, and sick of it.

Normally, Steve would be among them—at least when he wasn't tired of traipsing about in Philly's biting winter temps. Ironically, though a Pennsylvanian born and bred, he had less tolerance for the weather than did his partner, a carrot-haired young buck fresh from Alabama.

Life had a sense of humor, no doubt about it.

Still humming, ignoring for a moment his partner's impatient eyebrow twitch, Kraut finished another page. His ever-present worries about Hawkeye aside, there were several reasons today for good cheer.

He'd never expected Special Agent Gibbs to seek him out. Tony's apparent trust in the man aside, Steve had seen little but brusqueness during his first encounter with Gibbs. But then, sometimes harshness was a side effect of an iron will, and Kraut was a firm believer in giving people the benefit of the doubt. All that mattered was that, somehow, the agent had taken a liking to DiNozzo. Steve had trouble conceiving of a more unlikely pair, but his opinion was irrelevant.

Tony had an ally.

It was about damned time.

His partner fidgeted irritably. Relenting—there _were _advantages to being the senior officer, but it didn't do to abuse them—Steve halted his attempts at musicality. Even with Christmas approaching, three nasally renditions of 'Greensleeves' were all his fellow officers could reasonably be expected to take.

"'Kay then. I'll bite. What are you so happy about?"

His partner's slow, patient drawl, so in contrast to his quick-moving nature, never failed to make Steve smile. "It's Christmas, Chris."

Chris snorted. "Not yet it ain't."

Steve shrugged tolerantly, surveying the tackily decorated bullpen. "It's December, man. Close enough. And Keyes…"

_Is suspended._ The words died in his mouth. Across the room, a familiar face stood out amongst the crowd.

"…is here," he finished slowly, lowering his pen.

"That's a good thing?" Chris asked doubtfully, then let out a shrill whistle. "Jesus, take a look at that shiner!"

"He's not supposed to be here, he's fricking suspended," Kraut bit out, launching to his feet. "And he's not going to stay here a blasted minute longer. I'll be back."

The energy in the room shifted almost palpably as he approached. Cops could sense better than anyone the gathering clouds of confrontation, and at his height, Steve was hard to miss.

Keyes turned on the stop, raising an eyebrow leisurely. The effect was somewhat marred by the flamboyant purples of his swollen eye. "Kraut."

Steve dropped his voice, cognizant of half a dozen cops trying to listen in. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Relax, big fellow," Keyes said dryly. "I'm just pulling my shit together. You don't need to make my good eye match the other one."

Steve's scowl eased slightly, but he didn't budge. "Yeah? I think that depends on how you got yourself suspended."

"The protectiveness is really cute," Keyes mocked, good eye hard. "Excuse me while I go vomit."

Steve loomed closer, dropping his voice another decibel. "I can think of a real good way to make your suspension last longer. How about a nice rundown of every official reprimand you gave DiNozzo? I think Bridenn might be in the mood to hear about them."

Keyes laughed—a short, harsh sound with a thread of actual humor. "Naïve and by the books as usual, Kraut. But I'm not the one your pretty boy needs to be worrying about."

"Is that a threat?" Steve snapped, louder than he'd meant to. A passing detective stared.

A snort this time. "No one ever accused you of having too many brains. I'm done trying to keep that rich boy asshole from sinking the investigation. Let him hang himself with his machinations. I don't give a shit. But at least I'm honest enough to say so."

"Are you getting to a point?"

"Alright, I'll spell it out for you." Already hushed, Keyes' voice dropped to a whisper. "I never pretended I cared about DiNozzo. Can you say that for everyone involved? Bridenn, who's been obsessed with little but Macaluso for years? _Watson?_ Forget it. Think you know what their priority is? Let me give you a hint. It's not the smart-mouth, lowly cop from Peoria who never gets calls from family."

Keyes stepped away. The unmistakable truth of his words froze Kraut's automatic refutation in his throat.

Yet…

"Why the hell do you care?" Steve growled.

Keyes smiled thinly. "I don't." He scooped up his pack one handed, and straightened. His good eye glittered nastily. "Good luck trying to save your friend from the enemies he can't see."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Steve leaned against the rough brick of the station, feeling the cold bite into his cheeks. He turned over his cell phone with fingers long gone numb. He could see the truth, now.

Keyes was right.

If anyone was going to help DiNozzo, it had to be him.

Slowly, Kraut uncurled his fingers. Hands shaking, he flipped open his phone. He'd promised himself he'd never call this number, just in case it jeopardized the investigation.

But he had to warn Tony.

Fingers trembling, Steve pressed _call._

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Miles away in Baltimore, a ringtone blared through Macaluso's car.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Chapter Notes:**

Here you go! A new chapter for a new year. Hope you liked it. Poor Tony's not quite himself. And Keyes is spreading poison, as Keyes is wont to do…

Next chapter soon, I promise. We're approaching the end here, folks. Here's to hoping I finish it before my one-year anniversary! (Late January…I think.) Although that might be overly optimistic…

By the way…my college literary magazine recently accepted an original short story I wrote! I'm pretty excited. Baby steps, baby steps… :) Anyway, just wanted to share that with you all!


	14. Save Us From the Fallout

**Chapter Warnings: Mild language, mild sexual references, violence, and dark themes**

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"_Nothing we say is gonna save us from the fallout…"_

—_Breathe_ by Taylor Swift

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

After almost two hours stuck in the backseat with Maria, Tony could only classify the experience as surreal.

Riding in a car with both Macaluso and Maria was like a particularly bad parody of a family vacation. Maria bounced around excitedly, pointing the sights with the almost childlike persona to which she reverted in her cousin's presence. Whether the attitude was affected deliberately—an attempt to project the image of the childhood friend Macaluso saw her as—or unconsciously, it was disconcerting. Especially given that Tony himself had somehow absorbed her quiet steadiness.

Or at least the appearance of it.

"Look—llamas!" Maria squeezed his arm, pointing. Macaluso chuckled tolerantly, eyes on the road. Tony forced a matching laugh, then looked at her face, and was startled into another. She _was_ excited, a sparkle captive in her dark eyes. Still smiling, he tightened his arm around her shoulder, feeling a surge of satisfaction that certainly had nothing to do with the way his nerves tingled at the contact.

They were escaping Philly. Even he was willing to celebrate that.

"Ten minutes and we will be in Baltimore," Macaluso intoned, eyes meeting Tony's in the rearview mirror. The skin around them crinkled, inviting him to share in the older man's good humor. "There is a notable lack of llamas, but they do have some very fine crabs."

Maria giggled, managing somehow to squeeze closer to Tony, until her hips and thighs were flush against his.

He'd seldom felt quite so aware of his outer leg.

"Well, good," Maria quipped, leaning her head back and letting her eyes fall closed. Lashes, distractingly long, curled up to shield her golden lids. "I'm hungry."

His arm pinned, Tony scrutinized her, brow raised. A smile, a little too pleased, was hovering in the corners of her lips. She looked…smug?

Fidgeting, Maria twisted sideways, until her ankle oh-so-slowly brushed his.

Definitely smug.

Well. He had his pride.

And two could play _that_ game.

A wisp of hair, coiling out of her tightly twisted bun, dangled to her cheekbone. Blue-green eyes glinting, Tony used his free hand to tuck it behind her ear, deliberately letting his fingertips trail along her jaw. Maria shivered. Smirking, Tony leaned in until his lips were a scant inch from her ear. "Cold?"

Maria twitched, eyes fluttering open. Sultrily. "Mmm, maybe." Turning sideways, she draped one leg over his lap, and snuggled closer.

"Enough," Macaluso said loudly. "Any more of this in the back seat and I will be forced to find you…how does one put it…alternative transportation."

Maria giggled again. "Such as?" Tone airy, she brought the second leg to join the first. Rolling his eyes, the detective traced a design on her calf, ending at the most sensitive patch of skin behind her knee. Uttering a squeak, Maria returned her limbs to their proper position, scowling at Tony playfully.

"Such as walking," the Mafia boss interjected in his dry way. "Topolina, there are things I have no desire to see. When—"

The loud, jarring ring of a phone sliced through his words.

Instantly, Tony's body went electric. Somehow, he managed to keep his breathing even. Grimacing apologetically at the Mafia boss, who waved it off, Tony flipped the cell open. His heartbeat seemed to have a mind of its own. So soon…it couldn't possibly be Watson. But if it _was_…

"Hello?"

"Tony?"

Not Watson. But startlingly familiar all the same.

_Steve? _

Tony choked.

What the _hell_? "Who is this?" The detective managed, shock clipping his words short. _Kurt? _It made no sense, no sense at all. He'd never given Steve this number, never given him anything but the most basic of information about the operation. Surely…_surely_…Watson wouldn't have asked Kurt to relay information at all, much less a message so crucial.

"There's something you need to know."

Alarm, now tinged with panic. Tony could feel Macaluso's gaze boring into him. "No, this isn't Sam Walsh's number," Tony said loudly, eyes darting to meet Maria's. He smiled, shaking his head.

There was a pause, a whisper. "I'll call later. Just…be careful. If something seems like it's going wrong, just get out, alright?"

"No, don't try again later," Tony retorted, mind whirling. The urgency in Kraut's voice was unmistakable, but what he was getting at, the detective could only guess. Had there been a break in the case? "He doesn't live here. Wrong number, pal."

Tony hit the end call button, and tucked the phone back into his jeans, rolling his eyes. "Sorry about that. I think he was drunk."

Macaluso's eyes held his for a long moment.

"That is odd," the older man said calmly. "I also had a particularly determined caller this morning. Give me your phone. I want to be certain that the numbers were not the same."

A trickle of sweat dampened the collar of Tony's shirt. "Sure," the detective managed, fishing up his cell.

Macaluso opened it; scanned it impartially. "Ah. Good. It is different. My apologies, Tony. One can't be too careful. If we were being monitored—" Macaluso shrugged, handing it back.

"No problem." Tony smiled, the expression not reaching his eyes. The detective leaned back against the seat, forcing himself to relax, and replaced his phone with hands that trembled faintly with relief. As unsettling as Steve's call had been, at least it hadn't alarmed Macaluso.

Everything was fine.

The detective glanced forward, only to find Macaluso's gaze pinned on his.

Disquieted, Tony turned to stare out the window with eyes that took in nothing.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

As the hours stretched on, however, Tony's sense of unease began to dissipate. It was there, as it always was in Macaluso's presence—lingering, pulsing, waiting to be disturbed. Still, it was hard to muster up any real sense of urgency while sitting in a cozy booth watching a Mafia boss eat a hamburger.

Surreal, it seemed, was the order of the day.

Macaluso meticulously removed the pickles from his bun, looking faintly stormy. "I told them not to give me these…things. They affect the taste."

Maria, curled up in the corner with her feet on the seat, giggled. "Give them to Tony," she suggested, shoving the detective's thigh with the tip of her foot. "He's always hungry."

Tony made a face, grabbing for the offending foot, but it was tucked away before he could.

"Be glad of it." Macaluso's voice, grimly good-natured, cut into their roughhousing. "You are young. Someday you will not be able to consume everything in sight."

Tony grinned, a shark's smile. "Well, then I guess I'd better eat everything I can now." Carefully, he snitched a pickle off the plate, more to see if Macaluso would let him than anything.

He did. Shrugging inwardly, Tony popped the pickle into his mouth, and choked. "_That_ is disgusting."

"I did warn you, Florentino." Macaluso shoved his hamburger away, looking thoroughly vexed. "I cannot put this thing into my body. I will be back."

Maria raised an eyebrow, stealing a pickle. "It can't be that bad."

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, it can, actually," Tony retorted darkly, his eyes and his attention shifting to Macaluso.

The Mafia boss paused, not at the counter but in a small alcove, and pulled out his cell.

"I think it's delicious," Maria said delicately, her eyes flickering to note both Macaluso and Tony's response.

Tony smirked. "Sure you do."

In the background, Macaluso gestured wildly.

"It is actually possible for someone to have different opinion than you, you know," Maria retorted archly, raising an eyebrow in silent question. _What's with the call?_

"Sure," Tony agreed easily. "But there's opinion and then," he leaned in, smirking, "there's fact." Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head. _No idea._

Macaluso pivoted to face the other direction, head lowered. Tony grimaced inwardly.

Something Macaluso wanted to be secretive about. That boded ill on any day.

"Maybe _yours_ isn't the fact."

It was automatic, by this point, to banter with her, paying but half an ear to practiced barbs. "Maybe. But it doesn't seem very likely." He tilted his head, mockingly.

She sputtered, with semi-genuine outrage. Over her shoulder, Macaluso hung up. It was a moment before he turned around.

"Are you insulting my taste in food, Mr. Florentino?"

Tony looked away. "Oh, I'd never dream up such a thing," he said absently, fiercely conscious of Macaluso's approach. The detective braced himself for the inevitable touch—ever since his arrest, he'd been jumpy; longer, if he wanted to be honest with himself—and Macaluso relished sneaking up on him.

But it didn't come. Instead, the Mafia Boss leaned casually against the opposite booth, gracing them both with a meaningless smile.

"This thing has taken away my appetite," Macaluso said lightly. "But I took the time to confirm our dinner reservations. Do you know, they tried to tell me that I hadn't asked for a table? The incompetence is maddening. But the food is world class, so let us abandon this, and enjoy the sights until later."

Tony helped himself to two fries at once and rose, feeling a chill start up his spine. The story sounded quite sincere, and yet…

Macaluso was a good liar.

"Sounds like a plan." Tony smiled widely, and offered Maria his hand with a flourish as she clambered out of the booth.

He held on to it as they vacated into the sunshine—just for appearances, of course. It certainly wasn't as though her touch was comforting.

For all of that, when Maria's fingers laced through his, paired with a glowing smile, it felt like a punch to the gut.

_Guilt._

He was leading her on, effortlessly—without thinking, without planning—bruising her with every casual touch. Every warm smile, every quick retort softened by affection…

Some day, she would hate him for this.

The thought stung more than he'd like. Avoiding her eyes, Tony slipped his hand away, feeling the lack of her warmth immediately.

"Giordano, Bianchi!" Macaluso's voice carried across the parking lot in greeting.

In spite of himself, Tony stiffened. He'd known Macaluso's thugs were coming—known even a Mafia boss playing lawful citizen in the daylight would want protection.

It didn't mean he had to like it.

"I did not expect to see you today. Do you have news?"

Tony frowned. That sounded…odd. False.

The detective sharpened his hearing, smiling banally at the two men who'd beaten the crap out of him at their last meeting. "Hi, there." _Go to hell, you bastards._

Bianchi gave him an ice-cold stare in return, leaning in to whisper in his boss's ear. To Tony's amusement, Macaluso had to stoop slightly.

Bianchi might be brawny, but he hadn't won the height lottery.

Macaluso listened attentively, eyebrows raising, then straightened "Really. Well, Maria, I'm afraid I must ask your forgiveness. We have a change of plans."

"But—" Maria's voice rose in protest.

"Mi dispiace," Macaluso countered smoothly, sparing her a smile. "There is a small business matter we must attend to."

Excitement mingled with a fierce anxiety in Tony's stomach. _Business_ in Baltimore? This was the first Macaluso had mentioned of it. If he showed him something—if Tony could get so much as a _hint_ of something connected to the Petty Officer—

It could be another nail in the case against Macaluso.

Maria, however, looked as though she was inclined to protest again. Hurriedly, Tony pressed a kiss to her forehead, catching her hands in his. "Don't argue," he murmured, iron lacing his voice. It turned the casual command into a military order. _You made me keep you as my cover. You made me bring you here. But this time…_

This time, she _would_ follow his lead.

She hesitated, hand stiffening in his, then met his eyes. Whatever she saw there, it was enough. Maria slumped. "Alright, you two attend to your business." To her credit, though Tony had felt her heart rate double, she sounded merely faintly annoyed—only appropriate, for a woman promised a vacation day, only to have it snatched away.

"Take my car, go to the hotel," Macaluso suggested. "Unpack your pretty dresses, perhaps. We'll be back soon enough."

Maria sighed. "Alright." She reached up, letting fingers trail down Tony's cheekbone. "Until later."

Tony watched her as she walked away, feeling relief only when she vanished around the corner.

A hand dropped on his shoulder, heavy but not—quite—painful.

To his frustration, he couldn't suppress a sizeable flinch at the touch.

"Let's go for a walk," Macaluso suggested, face close enough that his breath tickled Tony's ear. "There is a small matter we need to discuss out of the range of prying ears."

The hairs on the detective's neck rose. "Alright. Business. I'm always ready to talk about business."

"Yes, you are quite diligent," Macaluso countered wryly, turning them from the tiny fast food parking loot into a grungier street. His two men followed, like mismatched pillars. "Particularly when it comes to flirting."

"Yeah, well. " Tony grinned sheepishly, trying to burn the route into his memory, just in case. "Maria's pretty special. So, where are we going?"

Macaluso tugged him into another side street, smaller and even more run down. "Yes, she is," he said softly, letting the question go unanswered.

The tone felt wrong. Tony's pulse picked up, beating a rapid tattoo against his throat. "Is this where your front is? I've got to say, I figured you ran something glitzier." He darted a sideways glance, noting an alleyway littered with crates.

If he had to run, his agility would give him the advantage there.

Macaluso laughed, a long husky sound. "Your instincts are, as usual, quite good. This is not my business, just a place I…like to visit."

They turned again, into a narrow alley like the one they'd just passed. Tony halted automatically, grimacing as the smell of vomit tickled his nostrils. "Very homey. What did you say we were doing here, again?"

"Tony, Tony," Macaluso chided, eyes expressionless. "One would think you didn't trust me."

A flood of fear, cold as melted snow, crashed through him. _This isn't right._

Tony laughed, edging almost imperceptibly backwards despite Macaluso's arm on his shoulder, instincts screaming. _You can't blow your cover, you can't blow your cover…_

But if it was already blown?

"Didn't trust you?" Tony shook his head, smiling. "After all this time, that would be ridiculous."

To his ears, the _response _sounded ridiculous. But Macaluso simply laughed in return.

"Relax, Florentino. I am only joking. I thought you liked jokes."

"Love 'em," Tony agreed easily.

"Perhaps you will like this one, then." Letting go of Tony's shoulder, Macaluso slung his arm over Tony's shoulder, and began to walk, steering the younger man with him. "It is very simple, so listen carefully. What goes squeak, squeak, bang?"

"Never been too good at guessing," Tony said slowly. A cold sweat began to trickle down his collar, despite the cold wind.

"A rat in a minefield." Abruptly, they halted, Macaluso moving to stand in front of him.

_A rat_…

He was frozen with dread. Tony's eyes flew up to meet Macaluso's.

The Mafia boss smiled, reaching into his pocket.

"Have you looked where you are walking lately?"

Tony laughed.

And ran.

The wind whistled past his ear as he dodged Bianchi. Behind him, Macaluso shouted, and Tony ducked automatically, but no bullet came whistling over his ear, and there was no time to wonder why—

Tony threw himself down a side street. Behind him, Bianchi panted, but he sounded close—too close. This was madness. He was as good as dead—and where was Giordano? Panicked, Tony vaulted a crate, landing smoothly on the other side. Bianchi cursed, and the sound of clattering echoed through the alley. The detective pelted on, ignoring the way pain rippled through his side. He'd always been good at running—always been athletic—the one thing his father had always approved of in him—

It might save his life, now.

A crack rang out. The crate nearest Tony splintered, spraying shards of wood. He leapt over the next, but his shoe caught, and he went flying.

Tony slammed down onto broken concrete, crying out as still bruised ribs flared in agony. Sheer determination brought him to his feet and pulled him, stumbling, into a run.

But it was too late. A large body crashed into him from the front, hurling him off his feet.

_Giordano._

Dazed, Tony dragged himself to his knees, and spun with a punch as the man lunged forward. Giordano snarled, dodging the blow, but the distraction wasn't enough; from behind, a panting Bianchi wrapped an arm around Tony's throat.

All logical thought fled. Ignoring pulses of pain, Tony threw himself into battle, kicking, scratching, attempting a blow. But his arms couldn't move—and his vision was fading—and it was over, it was over, it was over.

All he had left was darkness.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was the hardest phone call he'd had to make in a very long time.

Macaluso leaned against the concrete wall, rage building with every breath.

He didn't wanted to tell her. She was so pure, his Maria, a bright, sunshine-lit iris. This would crush her.

Florentino was going to break her heart, after all.

The sound of an engine broke into his thoughts. His Jaguar pulled onto the gravel, looking absurdly out of place in this no man's land of concrete. He should have just gone to the hotel, Macaluso realized belatedly, but it paid to be careful, even now.

Especially now.

Maria stepped out, a willowy figure all in white. "Michael?"

He waved.

Slowly, she made her way over, teetering in her heels on the loose stones. Her face was a mask of concern. "What's the matter? Did—did something happen to Tony?"

"There is something I must tell you," Macaluso said, almost gently. Her dark eyes, so like his own, grew wide with alarm.

"Tony Florentino is not your friend."

She stumbled; Macaluso caught her arm just in time to steady her. "What do you mean?"

The sheer fright in the whisper made him pause. Curse Florentino to hell and back.

"The phone call he received this morning. I traced the number."

"I…I don't—" Her golden skin took on a grey tinge.

"Topolina. The call was made from the Philadelphia police station. He is either a cop, or he is an informant."

Maria swayed dangerously on her heels, shaking her head almost frantically. "That's…no, that's not—"

Macaluso wrapped his arms around her, holding her small form upright against him.

Maria shuddered in his grasp, an aspen leaf trembling in the winds of the ultimate betrayal. Rage built in his chest.

She should never have had to face this.

"I am so sorry, Maria," he whispered, pressing his face against her silky hair. "He will pay for this with every ounce of blood."

She went rigid in his grasp.

"No."

The word was tiny, barely a breath.

Macaluso stroked her head, fingers snagging. "It will be alright, Topolina." His voice gentled even as his fury kindled hotter. Tony would scream for this—scream until he choked on his own blood. Such a death was all he deserved.

"No."

Maria pulled away abruptly, taking a step back. Her chest heaved, eyes gone curiously wild.

"You can't hurt him."

Somewhere, far away, his heart ached. She was so gentle—so pure, in spite of it all. "I must," he answered gently, reaching out to brush her arm. "He betrayed you. He betrayed _us_."

She twitched away, dodging his comforting gesture. "_No_." Maria took another step back. Her voice shook. "You can't hurt him, because he didn't betray you."

Denial. He closed his eyes. "He has been contacting the _police_, Maria—"

"I did."

The world tilted strangely. "I beg your pardon."

Her eyes were wide, glittering strangely. "I'm the one contacting the police."

There was no breath left in him.

"I used his phone a few days ago. That's how they had his number. He's innocent."

"What are you saying?" Macaluso whispered, stepping back. It was a joke—or he was dreaming…

But her eyes were twin sparks, singing him with their intensity. "The truth. _I_ turned on you. _I_ went to the police. _I_ have been reporting on reporting on you!"

"That…cannot be true."

It came as barely more than a whisper, but Maria kept speaking, her voice rising, filled with some fierce emotion.

Anger?

Like it, but deeper.

Loathing.

"Oh, but it is. Tony is loyal to the business, and he's a good man." She bit down on her words, every syllable coated with fury. "I won't let you destroy him for my error. He's what we all need—he's what you're supposed to be—before brother turned on brother, before you forgot what the Famiglia _meant_!"

"You _lie_!" It was a roar—tearing from his throat, echoing off the concrete wall. "It was Florentino—it was always Florentino—"

"_No_. I betrayed you. I, I, _I!_" She was transformed, hair coiling haphazardly out of her once perfect bun; skirts billowed wildly in the wind. Her beautiful face was twisted with a savagery that made a mockery of his loving cousin.

His little mouse, turned into a raging beast, a _snake_ in his hand with fangs lowered and jaw open wide…

"You lie." He said woodenly. It was not true…it could not be true…

She stilled, face blazing. A smile flickered, lighting her dark eyes with a foreign glint. "No, I don't lie, Michael. I've told you this a thousand times. Don't you remember?"

She took a tiny step forward, smile vanishing.

"I hate you."

The calm certainty cut through him like a shard of glass.

"You cannot." The world was spinning—nothing was as it should be— "I—it was always you and I—"

"You…killed…Alano." Each word snapped out like the lash of a whip, stinging. Vindictive. "You killed him, and you destroyed the Famiglia."

"He betrayed me!" He spun forward, gripping her arm with crushing fingers. "You understood that—you said—you said—"

Maria tried to wrench her arm away and failed, eyes boring into his. Suddenly, he couldn't look away. "Alano didn't betray you," she whispered. "He made a mistake, and you wouldn't believe him. And you've been trying to justify his death with every man you kill."

He still could not turn his head. "No," and his voice cracked, and it was his turn to shake. She was wrong—she _lied_—

"Alano was competition," Maria breathed, lips twisting, words dripping venom. "He was competition, and you waited for an excuse, and you killed him—put him down like a _dog_—"

Rage was blinding. "_Sta zitto_," Macaluso snarled. "Shut up, shut up—"

"No, no, I've had my years of silence—you killed him; he was your cousin, and you killed him! He was my _brother_—"

Without thought, his hand lashed out, smashing into her face.

With a cry, she fell silent, head bowed.

"Back up," Macaluso ordered, feeling like stone.

Slowly, very slowly, she rose. Blood trickled from her nose, staining her lips and chin. She looked…so unlike herself.

"Back up," Macaluso repeated. Slowly, he reached to his side. Familiar cold metal met his fingers.

Her eyes were huge, but she had not moved.

The mafia boss pulled the gun free. It felt so very natural, in his hand, so obvious to flick off the safety.

"Back. Up."

A drop of blood fell from her chin, dripping on the snowy white blouse. Soiled. Slowly, she stepped away, moved backwards.

"Turn around."

Maria stared. A tear trickled down her face, followed by another.

"So you'll murder me too, Michael?"

"_Turn around_."

A tiny, bitter smile curved her lips, even as tears began to stream down her face. "I wonder where he went," Maria said, seemingly to herself.

"Who?"

She closed her eyes, smile vanishing. Her lips began to tremble in earnest.

"_Who_?" He shouted, raising the gun. She had no right to look like this—so wretched—so alone—a devil in the guise of a Madonna—

"No one," she whispered finally, dark lashes curled, as always, against her golden lids. "Just a little boy I thought I knew."

Head bowed, she turned on the spot.

The words felt like a dagger. He could see her in his mind, fighting with him over the syrup, teasing, hugging, taunting, laughing—hand trembling, Macaluso lifted the gun, but he did not pull the trigger.

_Maria._ His lips tried, but failed, to form the sound, the cry strangled in his throat. She had lied, she had_ lied_…and yet…

_I hate you_.

So be it.

Shaking, Macaluso squeezed. The crack echoed off the warehouse walls, and he bolted, racing for his car like a man possessed. Somehow he kept a hold on the weapon he would have to destroy, somehow he knew to keep moving. Someone could come—someone might have heard—someone might have _seen_—

But one thought pressed on him like a gong, reverberating through his skull until every fiber of his being ached.

She'd been so pure.

Florentino could never bleed enough for this.

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**Chapter Notes:** Hello, everyone! For the record, you are all….truly…awesome. In my painfully long hiatus, I did not get one single flame, just hopeful and slightly mournful reviews that—finally—spurred me back into action. You all have been remarkably patient; I will do my best to never let there be such a long gap again. At least it's a nice long chapter, right? Exciting, too, I hope.

And, um, right. Really, really nasty cliffy. Two, actually. Don't hate me! And please let me know what you think!


	15. If You Win or You Lose

**Chapter Warnings: **_**Strongly T**_** for semi-graphic torture, language, and dark themes**

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_If you win, or you lose_

_It's a question of honor_

_And the way that you chose_

_It's a question of honor… _

—_A Question of Honor _by Sarah Brightman

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He was wading through fog. The heaviness swirled around him, dragging down his limbs with deadening strength. It didn't want him to fight. There was no need to fight. He could stay here, in clammy nothingness, away from the sharpness prodding him awake, and simply breathe…

But even breathing hurt.

Awareness returned in a flash, and with it the full weight of panic. Tony's eyes flew open as his body jerked backward, the need for flight overriding conscious thought. Metal rattled, and sharpness flared in his wrists, barely registering against the throbbing pain in his head.

Tony froze, forcing himself to utter stillness. He swallowed, grimacing as his throat protested, and slowly turned his head.

His hands were shackled. Wide, rusted bands encircled his wrists, their chains leading back to rings on the wall. His back was pressed against cold concrete; Tony gave it a quick glance, and immediately regretted it. Biting back nausea, the detective tore his gaze away from the distinctive dull brown stains and stared straight ahead.

He was in a basement, encased in battered concrete from floor to ceiling. A series of light bulbs, suspended and flickering tremulously, cast their light on the grim surroundings. Cold dampness—the impression of fog hadn't been baseless—seeped through his clothes. A wooden staircase led up to a green metal door, the only visible exit, and across the room a single faucet dripped slowly.

There _would_ be a drip. Shivering, Tony allowed himself to deliver it a peevish glare before he slid backward, trying to wrap an arm around his dully aching ribs. The limb halted before he could reach; he gave the chain an experimental tug, but it was useless. Slumping, Tony let his hand drop to the floor.

Well.

It was hard to recall the last time he'd been quite this screwed.

The only question was what, precisely, had blown up in his face. Tony heaved a sigh, letting his eyes drift close. A wrong word he'd unconsciously let slip? His lack of enthusiasm for Macaluso's torture games? Steve's ill-timed call? Had the officers in Philly found evidence, and been exposed? It was hard to say, and harder still to figure out how to do damage control…

Tony could feel the threads of Antonio Florentino hovering just inches away, ready to wrap around him like a cloak once more. All the machinations, and the submission cloaked in brazenness, and the carefully tapped into, barely acknowledged, but painfully real yearning for approval. So familiar by now, it felt like a second skin—and he _could_ play it that way, banking on the Mafia boss's desire to believe that he was in control, that a man so smart as he couldn't possibly have been so deceived…

_No._

Without warning, the thoughts vanished like a puff of smoke. The laugh that burst out of him was short and emphatic, a wry explosion of breath. Florentino's persona fled from his fingers, dissipating into nothingness.

It was a classic error in judgment, the sort of thinking that helped shade the difference between good undercover agents and brilliant ones. To hold on to a role with everything you had until the world ended—it took strength, and it was protocol, and far better than giving away your true identity. But the price you paid was the opportunity of presenting a third option, a new lie, that could distract from the truth and paint the picture you wanted your mark to see.

Tony had never thought he would forget it.

His foot was going numb. Tony shifted into a new position, and smiled grimly as the limb began to prickle. The insight did him little good, of course. He had no idea what Macaluso had uncovered. But there was still one thing he still could control, one outcome he could prevent.

_Smooth golden skin, flawless and glowing behind sheer chiffon._

Maria had not yet been touched by his failure.

If ensuring that beyond all doubt meant making himself the sacrifice…

So be it.

The faucet dripped languidly. Tony set his jaw, and waited for hell.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"You did _what_?"

The usually mild voice, laced with cold shock, tightened the knot in his stomach even further.

After hours of righteous anger warring with regret, he hadn't thought it possible.

"I called Detective DiNozzo." Steve forced himself to speak steadily even as he held Bridenn's incredulous gaze. "I needed to warn him about some…things."

"'Things.'" It was a statement, technically, but Kraut knew better than to take it as one. He ignored it anyway. Some things mattered more.

Like making sure he hadn't just made a string of the worst mistakes of his life.

Surely he hadn't.

He just had to check.

"Tony sounded….angry. I think I might have interrupted something important."

Watery eyes flashed in the pale, gaunt face. For a moment, Steve could see Bridenn as the street cop he'd been once, before obsession had displaced his intensity—all drive and passion and fury in the face of a crime. "On what planet—what could have possibly—" Bridenn bit out the words, and cut them off just as sharply, eyes still throwing sparks. "Stand right there, do you understand me, Detective? And pray for your effing job."

The director grabbed his phone, and dialed a number. The silence was endless. Impatiently, Bridenn opened a folder on his desk, and typed in another number. A frown etching ever-deepening furrows between his eyes, the director waited.

The quiet grew, and with it unease. Slowly, Bridenn put down the cell.

The door to the office flew open with a bang like the rapport of a gun. Watson, his hair in wild disarray, stood in the doorway. The detective's face sported twin spots of color, standing out like brands against chalk white cheeks. His grey eyes glittered alarmingly.

Sagging slightly, Watson rested a hand on the doorframe. "James." His voice, always husky, rasped oddly. "Turn on the TV."

Bridenn wasted no time. The three men turned, as one, as the image flickered into view.

A blonde, white-toothed reporter, silhouetted against a police car, clung to her microphone with gloved hands.

"…earlier today, a shooting in Cherry Hill, Baltimore. According to a statement by Baltimore Police, the victim is believed to be thirty-year-old Maria Gemma Donatti. The victim took a gunshot to the head, and her condition is described as critical, though she was apparently conscious when an unnamed witness arrived on the scene…"

The name sounded oddly familiar, but Kraut couldn't place it. He watched, uncomprehending, as Bridenn's normal pallor deepened.

Then memory struck.

** "**DiNozzo?" Bridenn breathed, echoing Kraut's own surging horror. He _did _know that name, and if she had been shot, then Tony might…might…

He couldn't even finish the thought.

_God, please, let him be alright._

Watson shook his head, jerkily. "Don't know. Can't reach him. I've checked with the local hospitals. No one matched his description. But, James…" The corners of his mouth lifted, quivering. "Baltimore PD has an eyewitness that places a man matching Macaluso at the scene. They've put out a warrant for his arrest. We've got him, James. I can feel it. We've finally got him."

Bridenn lifted an unsteady hand to brush back his hair. The fingers trembled visibly. He stared, eerily unblinking, at the other man. "We've got him," the director repeated lowly. Wonderingly. "But at what cost?"

The question hung in the air—horrible, heavy. Sickening.

Bridenn shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was once again crisp. "Get Baltimore PD on the phone. Read them in. I want DiNozzo found. Use whatever resources you have to, call in favors, I don't care—but do it carefully, do you understand? If his cover isn't blown…" His voice trailed away. Watson nodded, and took off.

Bridenn turned his attention to Steve. The detective waited, stomach lurching with fear. _Please, Tony._ "Since you're in this mess now," and the earlier disapproval was still palpable, "Get yourself down to Baltimore, and help them out. Report to me on their findings. And call Special Agent Gibbs. They worked together. He might have information, and he still has a dog in this fight."

"Yes, sir," Steve murmured, feeling a surge of relief. He had something—something!—he could do, something to _help_—anything to drown out the dizzying, roiling, nauseating thoughts…

_If I did this…_

_If I..._

_Did I…?_

Kraut fled, jaw set with determination. He couldn't afford to think like that. If he had…He would fix this.

Somehow.

_God_.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Behind the closed office doors, Bridenn lowered his head into his hands.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Gibbs jammed the gas nozzle into his car, and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. Despite the warmly rose-tinted light of the setting sun, the temperature was cold even for November. Not that he was unused to the cold, of course, or even particularly opposed to it; but it was galling when he knew full well that he could have been back at work long before sundown if he'd so chosen. Even if he'd been going the speed limit—a somewhat laughable thought—he should have been home hours ago.

He hadn't wanted to leave Philly.

He'd delayed. He'd dawdled—gone _shopping_, of all things—with only the barest pretense of bringing Abby a much wanted souvenir. The agent had found a perfect one after a long search—a happy, buck-toothed hippo, clad in a spike collar. She'd love it, of course—gothic and goofy was her strong suit—but Gibbs could have brought back one of a half dozen animals and pleased her almost as much, and been home in DC hours earlier.

Gibbs was well-practiced at denial, but at a certain level even he was willing to concede (privately, of course) that it was pointless.

Even after his discussion with Kraut, he still couldn't get DiNozzo's problems off his mind. That, on its own, wasn't altogether startling; if juggling a seemingly endless slew of personalities was DiNozzo's forte, brooding was his. What did give him pause was the sickly feeling that had taken to plaguing him at frequent intervals.

Something felt wrong. A churning uneasiness in his gut.…a "hinky" feeling, as Abby would put it. Gibbs had tried to put it down to the general discomfort over the whole situation. Yet the closer he came to home, the worse the feeling became.

But—damn it, DiNozzo was a grown man, and better at undercover ops than Gibbs had probably ever been. And if after everything, DiNozzo _still_ radiated vulnerability, to him if no one else—well, since when had it been his job to babysit damaged cops?

A spark of emotion flared at the harsh phrasing. The gas nozzle jerked, signaling a full tank. Gibbs paid, glowering at the machine in lieu of investigating the nature of the feeling. He had a sneaking suspicion that it might be guilt.

The agent swung into the driver's seat, transferring his glare to his near empty coffee cup. Why, Gibbs thought irrationally, was the coffee gone? Why was the coffee _always_ gone?

_Ring._

The interruption from this unrivaled inanity of thought was welcome. Gibbs snatched up his cellphone; flipped it open. "Gibbs."

The string of words froze his insides.

"How?" He forced out past gritted teeth. Slowly, the pale eyes grew glacial. "I'll be there in an hour."

In one quick movement, the phone flew into the passenger seat. The slam of his car door was deafening.

"So help me, DiNozzo, if you get yourself killed I'll slap your head in," Gibbs snarled, turning the key and hitting the gas near simultaneously. Tires shrieking, the car roared out of the parking lot.

_We think Detective DiNozzo's cover may have been blown._

The speed of his vehicle couldn't match the racing of his heart.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The squeal of rusty hinges echoed in the silence. Footsteps, so familiar in their tread, thudded dully on the wooden stairs, softly on the concrete.

They drew to a stop, so close that the whoosh of air tickled the hairs on Tony's face.

The detective raised aching, bloodshot eyes.

Mike Macaluso towered above him, face unreadable. His normally immaculate suit was rumpled, the priceless silk dress shirt untucked. A smear of dirt decorated the crumpled collar.

A jolt of adrenaline crushed the breath in Tony's lungs.

_And so it begins._

Tony grinned so widely it felt as if his cheeks would split, distantly aware of his fingers' convulsive trembling. "Heeeey there, brother. Long time no see."

Macaluso's mouth eased into a humorless smile. Slowly, the older man lowered into a casual crouch. The familiar scent of cologne tickled Tony's nose, mixing cloyingly with the musty smell of damp dirt and concrete.

Dark eyes searched Tony's.

"Comfortable?"

The concern was touching, as always.

"Dandy," Tony returned cheerfully. "The concrete's just like eiderdown. Phenomenal stuff. You know, you should probably patent that. It'd make a killing—_not _that you need the help , of course. Got to say, though, the shackles could use a little work. Maybe some fuzzy lining—except that would be pre-tty kinky."

Macaluso shifted weight, still smiling absently, and reached into his suit jacket. Elegant fingers, long and slender, tugged out their find—a slim blade, wrapped in a black leather sheath.

Hastily, the detective backpedaled, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, if you swing that way, no sweat. I'm all kinds of open minded—"

With a rasp like teeth scraping on foil, Macaluso slipped the knife free of its confines. In the dim light, it glimmered like liquid fire. Tony felt silent, heeding the warning. There was, as with everything else undercover, an ebb and a flow to this. Timing meant everything.

"I confess myself surprised that you are not protesting your innocence."

Ton shrugged, jangling chains. "Well, I know it doesn't look too good, me taking off like that," he answered frankly. "But what can I say. I got spooked. I ran. As my uncle always said, a dead rat and a dead dog both taste the same to maggots. He never _was_ too good with words, but you get the idea. Now, though—I'm just waiting for the truth to set me free."

"Fascinating," Macaluso murmured, running the blade along his own thumb. It trailed a line of red, paper thin, in its wake. Catlike, the Mafia boss shifted closer, wiping the blade on his own sleeve. "Do you know, Tony, I discovered a very interesting thing about you yesterday. Would you care to guess what that might have been?"

He'd sooner gouge his own eye out with a toasting fork. "Not a clue."

A rasping chuckle. Cold metal touched the edge of Tony's jaw. Every nerve in his body sang with awareness. A bead of sweat tickled his hairline.

"I traced your cellphone to the police," Macaluso breathed, tracing the soft skin behind his ear with his blade. "Care to explain away that, my quick-tongued _diavolo_?"

Tony registered the slashing motion just before sensation struck. Pain ripped through his shoulder. He bit down, hard, as wet heat trickled down his arm, soaking his sleeve.

"I'm waiting," Macaluso purred into Tony's ear, shifting the knife to his lower arm. "Anything to add? No? That is regrettable—"

"Enough," Tony snarled, letting his face grow hard. Inwardly, his heart sank—and lifted—simultaneously.

That was it, then.

The metal lifted. Tony grinned again—a wide, predator's smile, even as his heart fluttered. He turned his head, staring Macaluso in the eye. "What can I say. You caught me. But you really have no idea what you're up against, do you?"

Macaluso drew back, blazing eyes flickering with fury—and something like uncertainty. "Is that so."

Tony let loose a raspy chuckle. "My uncle sent me to infiltrate and destroy your branch of the Familia. All those deaths…you're drawing way too much attention from the Feds. Informing on you to the police was…a necessary means to an end. Your time at the top is going to end soon—one way or another." He shrugged again, the movement sending white-hot pain searing through his shoulder. "When I don't come back home…well. Just face it, Macaluso. You never were meant for this work. "

Without warning, his skull slammed into the wall. A groan worked its way out of the detective's throat as dizziness swallowed his vision. Tony didn't react as Macaluso yanked his head back by his hair.

In retrospect, Tony reflected, feeling peculiarly like giggling, that probably hadn't been the wisest thing to say.

"I do—not—believe—you," Macaluso snapped, releasing his head with a final slam.

Tony smiled, eyes slits against the pounding of his skull. "Oh, but you do," he breathed. "Deep down, you had to know. It was too easy. You wanted loyalty—I gave it to you. You wanted a protégé—I gave you one. Don't blame yourself, pal. People have a way of believing the things they want to believe. And I'm just damn good at letting that happen. Well. _Was_ really good," Tony amended, still smilingly wistfully. "Guess neither of us are going to win now, huh? Made it, Ma! Top of the world."

His only warning was a hiss of rage. A line of fire flashed down his lower arm. His vision flashed white-hot. Tony jerked away without meaning to, yanking on his restraints. They rattled loudly. Macaluso chuckled throatily, pressing harder. Tony's ears roared as understanding hit. For the first time, he knew why the bonds were as slack as they were. Just loose enough that he would be able to struggle, to feel freedom only just out of his reach. To thrash, like a snared rabbit.

And always to lose.

Fury pulsed. Tony set his jaw, and turned defiant eyes to meet his captor's even as the knife pushed deeper.

The dark gaze flashed. The blade clattered to the ground. Quicker than thought, his head flew backwards, impacting with the wall once more. Throbbing pain flared in his cheek and lip. Something warm, thick and wet slid down his chin.

Macaluso towered over him, fist clenched, one eyelid twitching with rage. His chest heaved, and for a long moment there was silence.

_Now._

Tony panted, vision fading in and out. "The easiest part was Maria, of course. Word had it you were surprisingly close to the bint. She was an easy way in." He grinned lasciviously, licking blood from his lips. "_She_ was an easy in, too, if you catch my drift—"

The knife twisted and _dragged_, hard, down his shoulder. Tony cried out, vision going grey. Agony came in waves, pulsing, throbbing, throbbing…he couldn't…think…

Underneath the pain, his heart clenched. So much left undone. But there would be no rescue, Tony knew, only hell until the final darkness. And a moldy basement in the annals of Baltimore was a lot closer to a gutter than he'd ever care to admit.

But underneath it, satisfaction swelled. Nothing could erase the aching pride.

She would be safe.

That was all that mattered, now.

"You _defiled_ her." Macaluso's voice was an almost inaudible whisper. "You took her loyalty, and you turned her, and you destroyed her."

Tony opened and closed his mouth, startled into speechlessness.

"You think I do not know that she betrayed me?"

A single mote of dust, shining golden in the light, floated lazily through the air.

"What?" It was a breath, uncomprehending. Disbelieving.

"She is dead, Tony. You killed her."

Nothing moved. Somewhere, a heart beat out of control.

He thought it might be his own.

Surely Macaluso knew that he cared for her, was spinning lies to stab him—his ears had deceived him—he was hallucinating—

And then Tony was laughing.

Lurching, agony-inducing, madness-laced laughter. Because—after everything—after months—after gambles and sacrifices, promises and lies—

After _everything_—

Somewhere far away, someone was shouting.

"She is dead. She is _dead! _And you—laugh—"

The words came to Tony in a cloud, warped and rippling oddly, a mockery of speech. Pain blossomed everywhere, sharp and stinging, pummeling. Tearing. Something warm flooded down his skin.

"—_laughing_—"

His very being was on fire.

Anguish, rage, and heartbreak warred, filling him until Tony remembered nothing, knew nothing, was nothing.

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**Chapter Notes:** And so the chips fall as they may, and no one knows quite as much as they think they do.

I'm out of college for the summer, and my whole family has moved across the country. Free time, at last! ;) Huge thanks to all of you for all the alerts, reviews and patience. Also, we cracked the 300 barrier on reviews! You people rock! Please let me know what you think on this one—the last scene really drained me. Cheerful, I know. I don't know if I ever want to write a scene that violent again!


	16. When Eyes Grow Dim

**Chapter Warnings:** Strong language and dark themes.

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"Oh my heart be strong

And guide when eyes grow dim

When ears grow deaf with empty words

When I know there's life within…"

—_Breaking the Silence_ by Loreena McKennitt

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Voices floated, tugging him from demon-strewn shadows.

"Keep him alive. I am not yet done with him."

Tendrils of darkness reached out to choke him once more.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

At 3:00 in the morning, the Baltimore Police Department was awash with activity. Despite the late hour, everyone moved with the brisk urgency characteristic of men who knew how to work in a crisis. The air vibrated with tension.

Gibbs inhaled coffee, head pounding under the bright florescent lights. He'd been wracking his brain for hours, for any previous comment from DiNozzo about Baltimore, anything that might be a clue to the detective's location.

There was nothing.

So he'd worked with what he had. Maria Donatti had been shot in the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse near Greenmount Avenue. Odds were that, if it was linked with Tony's disappearance, he might be close by—especially if he had simply gone underground, rather been taken prisoner.

But the situation was delicate. The district was crime ridden, gang-run; dangerous. At the sight of a cop, the word would go out, and the majority of criminals would slink away—but not all. They risked Baltimore's officers on the mission; worse, the odds tipping off Macaluso's men—whether the detective's cover was blown or not—were high. Even Gibbs had warred with excruciating uncertainty before finally making the call. In the end, it was only a gut feeling that to do nothing signed DiNozzo's death warrant that spurred him to send out the search teams.

But it was like looking for a needle in a hostile haystack, and DiNozzo might be nowhere near.

It was driving him mad. Gibbs wanted—_needed_—to join the search with every fiber of his being, but he couldn't argue that he was more valuable here. The police chief, upon hearing the situation, had with unprecedented willingness granted the agent the lead. Gibbs had interrogated the witness to the shooting, garnering every detail he could. He had—with the assistance of the local police chief and a significant amount of bullying—obtained from the apathetic judge an arrest warrant, in under an hour, for Macaluso in reference to the shooting. He'd cashed in every favor he could think of to get eyes—as quietly as possible—on the street looking for Macaluso, or for anyone not too scared to admit they had seen the Mafia boss.

But now all he had left was to wait, patient and cooperative, for news.

It was excruciating.

"I've got news from Union Memorial."

Gibbs pivoted. Steve Kraut, his massive build somehow diminished by the misery written in every line of his plain face, loomed into view, hovering uncharacteristically.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow, prompting.

Steve shook his head, eyes too bright. "Still critical. A bullet fragment lodged in her ear canal. The other stuck in her neck, just a third of an inch from hitting her spine. It's a miracle she's alive. The bullet went low. The doctors say it missed the portions of the brain that direct critical functions, but…the blood loss was extensive, and the structure that drains blood from the brain is partially blocked. If she makes through the next few hours, her odds increase substantially, but…"

Kraut slumped into the adjacent chair, leaving the grim chances unsaid.

Gibbs nodded slowly in acknowledgement, feeling a flash of sorrow on behalf of the woman DiNozzo had worked with, and returned his unseeing gaze to the PD's Macaluso file once more. So, the bullet had gone low. But the cops who'd processed the scene had reported that the gun had been fired from very close range, almost execution style. Was Macaluso, hard-bitten Mafia boss that he was, truly that poor a shot?

Or had something else—indecision, a distraction, regrets—affected his aim?

"It's my responsibility."

The husky words dragged Gibbs from his reflections.

"I've been watching out for Tony so long, I guess I just—I couldn't stop." The words were thick, choked with pain. "Those vipers have been out for him forever…I didn't think of anything but warning him." Kraut lifted pained, sky-blue eyes. "I just wanted…." He gestured sloppily, and fell silent.

Gibbs surveyed him wordlessly. Redemption wasn't his to give, and he doubted he would if he could. Not until Tony was here, safe and sound, with that damned grin and that insufferable sense of humor still firmly intact.

With a breath like a sob, Kraut buried his face in his hands, until all that was visible was his glossy shield of hair.

Gibbs swallowed coffee, face impassive. Inwardly, a reluctant stirring of sympathy broke through the cold wall of anger. Kraut had screwed up, alright.

No matter how this ended, he would carry that with him the rest of his life.

Gibbs knew what that was like.

"We'll find him."

The firm words were heartening to his own ears.

Kraut lifted his head, jaw set stubbornly. "Yeah? Even Tony runs out of lives sometimes."

"Hey!" Gibbs slammed his hand on the desk, rattling cups and knocking a glass paperweight clean off the table. A sharp crack signaled that the fall hadn't ended well, but the agent didn't so much as blink as he pinned the younger man with his fiercest glare. "You give up, Macaluso wins. Got that?"

Kraut looked away, glowering as well. It didn't quite hide the shimmering of his eyes. The next words were sharp; imbued with grief, overlaid with bitterness.

"Easy for you to say. You haven't known him as long as I have. He's so frickin' strong, on the surface, but he's got more heart than half the men in Philly combined, and a guilt complex like nothing I've ever seen. Even if he comes back alive, is there going to be anything left of him?"

The question struck a painful chord. For a beat, phantom blue-green eyes wide with vulnerability stared at Gibbs, childlike and defensive. He hesitated.

Then the image morphed. The eyes lit with sheer mischief, the tense mouth spread wide with gleeful combativeness and good humor.

In spite of everything, a tiny, wry smile curved the agent's lips.

"DiNozzo's a fighter."

Kraut stood upright abruptly. "Against this? Macaluso could be torturing him right now. How can he fight against that?"

Gibbs shook his head, the microscopic smile vanishing as if it had never existed. _Torture_. He'd kill Macaluso with his bare hands if he saw him right now. "He doesn't know how to do anything else."

"Special Agent Gibbs?" A young officer, beet red and gasping for breath, careened to a stop just an inch from the shattered desk ornament. "Special Agent Gibbs! _Mike Macaluso has just been brought into custody._ They're bringing him to—"

Kraut jerked to attention, clearly stunned. Gibbs was already in motion, taking off for the elevator. The blood thrummed in his ears.

"—Interrogation Room 4!" The man shouted after him desperately.

Gibbs slammed the elevator button with his knuckle. _So._ A hard, humorless grin spread across the agent's face. He couldn't strangle the Mafia Boss. Not when Tony finally had a fighting chance of being found.

But he would break the man, as hard as he knew how.

_You're mine, Macaluso._

The vow turned his grin feral.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He wandered, lost, through the desert. Blazing winds ripped the moisture from his body. _Heat heat heat._ It filled his skin, a thousand teeth devouring him alive from inside out. He could hear water dripping—an oasis! If he could only reach it…

But the sand piled higher and higher, stalling his process. Stumbling, he fell. The waves of sand poured over him, hot granules scorching every inch of him. Struggling, he tried to stand, but to move was agony…the growing pile reached his neck, climbed to his chin.

Panic peaked.

He drowned, burning.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The chill of the interrogation hallway seeped through Gibbs' jacket. A large brass four marked the only barrier between him and the mass murderer who'd killed his marine, and made DiNozzo's life a living hell for the last month.

The door opened, revealing the two cops who'd made the arrest. The closer man, a husky brunet equipped with a sharply crooked nose, jerked his head towards the room at Gibbs. "He's all yours."

Gibbs nodded abruptly in response, and swung the door open wide.

Under the dim lights, a dark, slim figure slumped over the table. The black hair shone dully, messy but slick with gel.

The latch fell shut with a soft _click_.

Macaluso lifted his gaze, stretching out linen-clad arms with the languid grace of a well-rested cat. Deep-set brown eyes glistened, coldly assessing the agent's face. Arrogance cloaked him like an almost physical entity.

Gibbs sat down, his own gaze sinking into the other man like extended claws.

The agent settled the opposing seat, pulling out the file. "Mike Macaluso." Remembering Tony's long ago irritation, Gibbs deliberately dragged out the last word in an softly derisive mispronunciation. "Philadelphia's own Mafia boss."

"Rumors and gossip." A nonchalant shrug, accompanying the razor-thin smirk. Handcuffs rattled in tune with the motion, linking together hands as refined as a jeweler's. "I am merely a devoted citizen, I promise you. And who might you be?"

"Special Agent Gibbs." The older man assessed him coldly.

"Special Agent," Macaluso repeated, lingering over the syllables as though tasting the sounds for the first time. "A Fed. Of course." A rough eyebrow lifted. "You are all always so very persistent in bothering me when you lose something."

Alarm bells clanged, deafening in their percussion. _Tony?_ "Have we lost something?"

Macaluso's smirk grew, accentuating the hard lines tracing his eyes. "I would not know. You simply do it so very frequently. Officer Pendleton and Officer Loxton most recently, correct…? Tragic losses. Believed to be gang related deaths, were they not? It is a pity they were so tempted by dirty money, but a cop salary is so…_small_, when you are raising a family."

The names flashed across Gibbs's vision, pulled straight from Macaluso's files. The urge to leap across the table was almost overwhelming. But this wasn't the agent's first rodeo. Let the Mafia Boss think he was in control.

Let him hang himself with his own pride.

"You were a suspect in those murders," Gibbs said, allowing his voice to carry a hint of his fury. Urgency pulsed in his veins, but there was no rushing this.

For a fleeting moment, Macaluso's eyes narrowed to slits of smugness.

Gibbs suppressed an answering smirk. _That's right, dirtbag. You're in control. Toy with me. Win the battles. Just keep dropping hints to taunt me…until you give me just one too many._

_ Then _we'll_ win the goddamned war._

"Yes, a very unfortunate misunderstanding." Macaluso's face and voice were sardonically innocent. The mannerism stopped Gibbs dead, startled. It was a carbon copy of one DiNozzo liked to pull.

But Tony's manipulations were never, ever cold, and Macaluso's face was chiseled granite.

Macaluso lifted his shoulders elegantly. "It is understandable. With all the violence in our cities, it comforts our citizens to have a scapegoat. I know how they feel. I too have lost people. Why, just an hour ago I heard a terrible rumor about a good friend of mine, Antonio Florentino." Macaluso leaned forward conspiratorially, expression wistful. "Do you know, Special Agent Gibbs, that when one breaks a man's neck, it can take him several minutes to die?"

_Shit._

Rage thundered, coiling together with a tidal wave of horror. Gibbs's heart was a sledgehammer, pounding its way out of his chest.

It was a bluff. It _had _to be.

He'd know if Tony was dead.

_Damn you, DiNozzo, you don't have permission to die!_

"I have not been able to confirm it, thanks to this…poorly timed arrest," Macaluso continued, face still perfectly sorrowful. "But I do not find it hard to believe. I liked Florentino very much, but he was always...reckless."

One more oily insinuation, and Gibbs would show him the meaning of recklessness.

_Enough of this._

"He's not the only one you've lost," Gibbs interjected coolly, no hint of his inner turmoil reaching the surface.

Macaluso straightened stiffly, eyes flickering. "No?"

"Maria Donatti was shot in the head yesterday."

The Mafia Boss's face rippled with emotion. "What?"

The word was a whisper of astonishment, but Gibbs caught the flash of rage before Macaluso could school his features.

The shock was feigned, but the younger man was nothing like indifferent.

Leverage, at last.

Gibbs would pry him apart like a clam.

"I do not believe that," Macaluso whispered, clutching the table edge. His hands trembled wildly. "I don't—"

The agent surveyed him piercingly, taking in the sweat edging the man's hairline, the way the dark eyes darted away from his own. More than fear of discovery, this. More than simple anger.

The question was, what?

"I need a moment," the Mafia Boss said brokenly, staring at his hands.

"Yeah, I can't do that."

Nostrils flared at the indifferent dismissal—another flash of wrath, quickly suppressed, again at odds with the wounded air. "Who did it?"

"Funny you should ask that. See, the thing is, we've got an eyewitness that lists _you_ as the shooter."

"Absolutely false," Macaluso snarled. His eyes were wild. _Panic?_ "Your witness is lying. He is probably the killer."

"Could be," Gibbs allowed easily. "Could be. Not how it's going to look to a jury. The witness this time? Not a junkie. Not an informant. See, he's a respected businessman in the Baltimore area, and he's already agreed to testify. With your history..."

"So they will let the real killer get away!"

Gibbs snorted ungracefully. "Yeah. Not too worried about that." Rising, he grabbed his folder. "I think we're done here."

"What do you mean?" Macaluso snapped, rising to his feet.

The agent paused, chuckling throatily. "You know, Mike, you're not a great shot." Casually, Gibbs perched on the edge of the chilly table. "See, I visited the crime scene. There was blood pooling on the ground, mixed with hair and bone fragments and skin. The reek of bodily fluids. Shell casings that match your make of gun." Gibbs shoved an evidence bag across the table. The metal clinked. "Looked like it was the scene of several murders. Not a pretty sight. But this story has a surprise. You know what that is?

"Maria Donatti didn't die."

"_What_?" This shock was real, the eyes huge his face.

"Doctors say she'll make a full recovery. Maria will be able to tell them all about it herself. Guess the witness is just insurance."

"I—no—I don't—" The blood drained from his golden face, rendering it a fascinating shade of gray.

"You couldn't even finish the job," Gibbs mocked softly, brows arched. "Shoulda stuck to knives."

"No—that is not _possible_—"

"Oh, she's very much alive," the agent breathed. "Mutilated. Damaged. Grotesque—did you know you blew off half of her cheek?—but alive—"

Without warning, Macaluso launched to his feet, lunging towards Gibbs.

The door burst open. Men pinned the struggling criminal back into his seat. His attractive face was torqued into a mask. "_Vaffanculo!_ That is a lie! _E morta!_ You cannot fool me! She is dead—she is _dead_, do you understand me? I know she is dead! _Chiudi il culo__!_"

The scream was near deranged, echoing wildly through the metal room.

_Gotcha._

"Now, that's funny. How would you know that?" Gibbs asked ironically, sweeping his folder off the table, flipping it closed. "Enjoy prison, asshole."

"Stop!" Macaluso bellowed, fighting his captors with renewed vigor. "Let go—_damn_ you all—_basta—_"

Gibbs didn't slow.

"You will never find your informant!"

Slowly, the agent halted.

The cops released Macaluso. The chest heaved under his rumpled shirt. His lip curled in a snarl. "I will give you Florentino. But I want a deal."

"You're not in a position to bargain," Gibbs said softly, signaling the other men to back away. They took up residence on the corners. "Dead men don't make good leverage."

"He is still alive...more or less," Macaluso said, sneering. "But if you delay..."

The pause spoke volumes.

Agonizing hope and loathing mixed in equal measure with the sick feeling in the agent's stomach. "Get. To. The. Point." Looming just inches from Macaluso's face, Gibbs bit off the words as though each syllable severed the other man's neck.

If only they did.

"I will give you his location, but _I _will take you to where he is."

There was no good reason for such a request. The department would hate it. It smacked of plotting. Worse, it might even be an ambush.

But it might be their only chance, and Macaluso knew it.

Gibbs lowered his face just inches from the younger man's, and with it his voice. The whisper that followed was almost inaudible, but filled with raw intent. "If you play us—if you lead us on a rabbit trail—you might just find that my hand...slips...on my gun."

"You dare to threaten me?" Macaluso breathed back, eyes flashing.

"Just giving you the odds." Gibbs crooked an eyebrow, smirking. "Tell me, Mike, how does it feel not to be untouchable?"

The golden face hardened with helpless fury.

But satisfaction was fleeting, meaningless. He pulled away. The two other men's eyes were averted, their faces carefully blank. If they'd heard the exchange, they weren't going to admit it.

"We leave in five minutes," Gibbs barked, gut surging with urgency.

_Tony, we're coming for you. _

_Don't you dare let go._

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Bone-deep chills wracked his body. Vague, menacing figures floated, coiling in in and out of his vision. Unearthly wails, sobbing and indistinct, tugged at his heartstrings.

One thought lodged in his mind, pricking him when his thoughts drifted out of his grasp and into incoherency.

He had to help them_. _

But his arms were wrapped in syrup, his legs wooden.

An odd shuffling sound cut through the howls. Without warning, rough

fingers locked on his chin.

He cried out at the contact, the exhalation tearing at his paper-dry throat. Thrashing brought agony, but anything was preferable to enduring the violation of touch.

"Hold still." Something about the voice stopped his heart. "How'm I supposed to keep you alive if you don't hold _still_?"

"Hold his jaws open." A deeper voice, clipped and equally chilling.

The grip wrenched his mouth open. Liquid flooded down his throat. Coughing and sputtering, he flailed maniacally. Coldness slopped onto his chest, the wave an almost painful shock.

Expletives filled his ears.

Hands released him. Breathless, he slumped. Convulsions took control once more as cold air attacked his skin.

Everything faded into chaos.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Chapter Notes:** Well. That is draft #3 of the second to last scene, equipped with what I hope was the best choice of endings. My inner Gibbs and Macaluso had a knockdown, drag-out fight over how to resolve the situation. Not a pretty thing to have in your head, folks. They finally compromised—grudgingly, loathingly—but not before disrupting a significant portion of my sleep. And now I am...thoroughly exhausted, but finished. ;)

As always, please let me know what you think! The reviews on the last chapter were so rewarding, and also quite helpful. And I pumped this one out quite quickly, so I'm sure you want to reinforce that behavior. ;) Haha. Love you all!

_(For the record, the Italian phrases I used when Macaluso goes off the handle are the most offensive language in the entire story. :P I feel as though I can get away with this, because it is realistic and most of you that might bothered by it hopefully don't know what it means, but if you do, my apologies for the crudity!)_


	17. A Cold Wind Blows

**Chapter Warnings: Strong language, semi-graphic violence, and dark themes**

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"_A cold wind blows on a windless day_

_Hear the cry for new life, the morning's flame_

_You were the brightest light that burned too soon in vain_

_Who will bring you back from where there's no return?"_

—_Ben's Song_ by Sarah McLachlan

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Softness brushed against his skin, feather light. His whole body seared with pain, barely distinguishable from the rhythmic pounding of his head.

"...Coddling him," an acidic baritone jarred his brain. "Try to remember...betrayed..."

...trying to follow orders," a light voice protested. "The fever...you want to explain how..."

A rush of fear. Sluggishly, he pried open his lids.

Indistinct forms, like bleeding watercolors, hovered at the corners of his vision.

"...a _blanket?_ You've..."

The strain was too much. His eyes fluttered shut. The voices trailed away.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The bitter wind howled, swallowing the shouts of the police squad. Gibbs adjusted his bulletproof vest roughly, and reached out automatic fingers to check for his gun.

A heavy hand gripped his shoulder.

The Baltimore police chief stood at the agent's shoulder, grey eyes somber. "Medevac is standing by for your call," he promised, thinning hair flopping wildly in the gusts. "We've got your back. Bring home your man, alright?"

"Thanks." Gibbs forced out the social nicety, always somewhat foreign on his tongue.

A bracing pat was his only answer.

Gibbs turned narrowed eyes on the backseat of his car. Macaluso, his shell of casual brooding restored, watched the proceedings with a gaze that gave away nothing. The dark-haired cop from earlier—Thompson—and another officer sat next to him, watching the prisoner with near palpable wariness.

Gibbs shared their sentiment.

Jerkily, the agent tugged on a plainclothes jacket. Unobtrusiveness meant everything. Macaluso would have men watching Tony—armed, and possibly with orders to execute their captive at the sight of a cop. The longer they could pretend to be insignificant, the better chance they all had.

"Everything's set."

That blunt though muted voice was Kraut. Shame still dripped from his every word, nearly palpable in its intensity. Gibbs grimaced, jerking his head towards the passenger seat in tacit command, and inhaled lightly.

It was time.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Joe Ghervio slammed the door to the basement, locking it firmly behind him.

"Where is he?"

Tom Bianchi dropped into one of the wooden seats, face set in sullen lines, and ignored the snappish query. The rickety chair creaked alarmingly—even brand new, it hadn't been built to hold the man's bull-like structure—but held.

"That man—" Ghervio pointed at the door, unnecessarily. "—won't last much longer."

Bianchi crossed bulky arms. "Doctor, are you?"

Ghervio dismissed both the comment and the hostility with a floppy wave. "I've cleaned up enough them to know. In any case, he's not going to feel much more. It's the fever that does it, you know?" He began to pace.

"I know. I heard you the first three times." Hostility boiled in the simple words.

Ghervio ignored him, in favor of further pacing, and cast a furtive glance at the still-closed door.

"You're going soft."

The gangly form stilled. "Please." Ghervio flung himself into the opposing chair, eyebrows tilted scornfully at the suggestion. "Florentino was funny, I'll admit it. But a rat's a rat."

The silence grew.

"Have you seen the news?" The question was slow, grudging, as though dredged up against Bianchi's will.

Ghervio slouched, fingers twitching at a sporadic tempo. "No. Should I?"

"It's Maria."

"Obsessing over the boss's cousin again?" Ghervio goaded, batting his eyelashes in mocking parody. "Let it go, Tom. Like she was ever going to pick someone who looked like _you_."

"She's dead."

The caustic smirk faded. "_Dead_?"

Bianchi lit a cigarette, with fingers that failed to be quite steady.

"Mike's going to go spare," Ghervio marveled, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling uneasily. "This is—this is going to be _war_. Who dared to touch his golden girl?"

The other man said nothing. Ghervio looked at him sharply.

Whatever he saw there had him lurching upright, mouth open. "_No way_. You think?"

"Witness. Broad daylight. The description matches." With each methodical word, Bianchi inhaled on the cigarette.

Ghervio pulled out of his seat, shaking his hands wildly with dismay. "_Shit_. What was he thinking? What was he doing? What _happened_?" He stopped still in his tracks, meeting Bianchi's eyes. "Why didn't he tell us?"

The other man just held his gaze, mouth twisting into an ugly curl.

Ghervio slumped into his chair once more. "Shit," he repeated, the sound quieter but tinged with the beginnings of anger. "We're in as deep as he is—what's that?"

Bianchi went rigid, hand reaching for his pistol.

"I heard something outside," Ghervio whispered, grabbing his own gun and lowering into a crouch.

Bianchi joined him, slinking low towards the window.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"It is here."

Face haughty as a lion's, Macaluso stared out the window.

Gibbs followed his gaze, finding a tiny townhouse, condemned by the look of it, with a battered shutters and an overgrown lawn.

He pulled the car to a stop, with a casualness he was far from feeling. The car behind him, following at a cautious distance, did the same—concealed from view of the house by a wildly overgrown hedge. "125 Westmont," Gibbs barked into his walkie-talkie, knowing even more back up would be here almost immediately—which meant that if they wanted the element of surprise, they needed to _move_.

"Stay with him," the agent snapped at the lighter haired of the two officers in the backseat. Not waiting for a reply, he swung out of his seat, slamming the door shut behind him. Thompson and Kraut joined him outside. The second car emptied four more officers onto the street. Gibbs gestured for them to go around the back, and nodded at his two men.

They were at the front door in seconds, pressed against the doorframe with guns drawn. The window was shuttered, dark. The blood thrummed in Gibbs's veins.

"Baltimore Police," Thompson shouted, banging on the door. "Open up!"

Silence.

Gibbs formed the universal two fingered "eyes on me" gesture. Both men nodded in acknowledgement, their focus locked. Quickly, Gibbs lifted three fingers, lowering them one by one.

_One. Two. Three._

_Go._

Gibbs slammed his heel just below the doorknob. The door flew open, swinging wide.

The agent broke right, escaping the chokepoint of the entryway and making it to the corner. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Thompson doing the same. Moving swiftly, he scanned the room—a table, chairs, counters, drawers. No place to hide. "Clear," he shouted, not dropping his gun. The scent of nicotine lay in the air, heavy enough to choke. Adrenaline surged.

_People—and here recently._

Two doors lay straight ahead, the only apparent exits. Gibbs hesitated, picking the one to the right on split-second instinct. This time, Kraut slid in next to him, Thompson taking up the rear. One. Two. _Three._

The door banged open, and Gibbs had just enough time to process a narrow staircase before a twin cracks rang out.

Flinging himself sideways, the agent hit the ground, even as the wooden floor sprayed splinters.

A bullet imbedded in the floor, shining dully.

Gibbs swore mentally, mind racing, as bullets continued to thud, landing perilously close to the three men. Narrow stairs, leading from a single doorway. _A deathtrap. _How many of them, lying in wait? How many of them, if any, in other parts of the house, waiting for the intruders to think themselves safe?

On the other side of the doorframe, Thompson and Kraut gazed at him questioningly. The agent set his jaw.

The shooting paused.

"Police! Drop your weapons," Thompson yelled.

No response.

More officers burst in the open front door, keeping carefully plastered against the walls. "No back entry," their leader shouted, crouching down behind a table, out of range of the gunmen.

In answer, more firing.

"We—need a distraction," Gibbs bellowed at Kraut, his voice barely audible over the chaos. "They're—shooting—at anything that moves. Let's give them—a new—target!"

Nodding, Kraut slid sideways, dragging himself over to the cabinetry, and scrabbling wildly through its contents.

An array of pots and pans, metal and hopelessly jumbled, crashed to the floor. Kraut lifted one, in question.

Gibbs nodded impatiently, beckoning fiercely.

Grabbing a few of the largest, Kraut scuttled back over. The officer who'd shouted passed a few more over to Thompson, eyes alight with understanding.

They waited. The gunshots quieted.

Gibbs nodded.

Thompson and Kraut launched forward, and _threw_.

The racket deafened thought. Panicked shouts echoed, barely audible through the clanging.

Gibbs fired a volley of shots, then plunged down the steps, heart in his mouth. Thompson and Kraut were hot on his heels.

A sound caught his ear. Spinning around, gun held high, the agent glimpsed a dark shape vanishing around a corner and—out of the corner of his eye—a bloody, slumped figure so familiar that for an instant time stilled.

Then the small, flickering light illuminating the room went dead.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Macaluso watched the house with narrowed eyes, listening the pat-pat-pat of gunfire with a spark of bitter satisfaction. Ghervio and Bianchi were excellent shots, and they had the home court advantage. If—by some miracle—Florentino were still alive, he would never make it out of the crossfire.

And if the police paid for the informant's life with a few of their own...

The Mafia boss smiled. The officer next to him shifted uneasily.

Justice would still have some meaning, after all.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Shouting a warning, Gibbs slammed into the floor, the bruising impact smashing the air out of his lungs. Twin thumps hit beside him, and not a moment too soon.

Bullets sang, not a foot above their heads.

The brush with death was as dizzying as it ever was, but Gibbs was no stranger to peril. And the gunman had given himself away. Sniper's keen vision already adjusting to the gloom, the agent narrowed his eyes and fired—once, twice, three times—in the direction of the shooter.

A strangled yell was his reward.

_Gotcha,_ Gibbs thought, cold with primal triumph, and slithered sideways, several feet away from his last location. The moment's glimpse of Tony's still, huddled form flashed in his head ceaselessly, a snarled mix of horror and hope shredding at his heart like knives. But there was no time to investigate; no chance of getting near the kid without getting them both shot to pieces. There was still at least one more shooter, biding his time.

Yet if even just one bullet went astray...

They could lose DiNozzo anyway.

Cursing inwardly, Gibbs strained his hearing, but he could here nothing above the bustle upstairs. The shooters, so clever in their lighting ploy, had screwed up in not making the most of their advantage when they had it. Now the darkness—such an dangerous disadvantage just a moment ago—acted as an equalizer.

The stillness was unearthly.

The tiniest husk of fabric, and Kraut's mouth was right near his ear. "I'll draw out the shooter," the larger man breathed, the air tickling the hairs on the agent's neck.

Gibbs' gut roiled. He gripped the thick wrist with an iron hand, and glared into darkness. But Kraut's face was swallowed by shadows. _Don't you _dare—

"I got Tony into this. I'm going to get him out," the deep voice whispered, hard with resolve. The limb ripped out of his hold.

Helpless, furious, Gibbs froze in place, finger on the trigger, ears tracking the slow, faint, _hush hush_ of Kraut's progress. Then—

"Hey, I think you got him." The booming voice sounded out to Gibbs' left, loud as a thunderclap in the silence.

_Idiot_—

Bullets cracked, a seemingly endless stream pouring out of the darkness.

Gibbs swiveled and shot, pouring his heart and soul into the firing. As though in another universe, he was aware of Thompson doing the same at his shoulder.

A scream, high and unfamiliar, pierced through the darkness—then stopped, as cleanly as though chopped off with a hatchet.

As though on some bizarre cue, the light flickered on. Springing up, Thompson at his side, Gibbs pivoted, scanning the space behind them for new hiding places, and coming up dry. In the light, the room was almost completely empty. Across the room—half concealed by a bullet-riddled metal filing cabinet, lay an unmoving body in a puddle of blood. A few feet away, another figure rocked back and forth, clutching his leg. A gun lay some distance away, out of reach of the still fingers.

Gibbs raced forward towards the first, kicking the abandoned firearm far out of the man's reach for good measure. Two fingers on the man's pulse—

"Dead," Gibbs announced sharply.

"Clear! This one's still alive." Thompson yelled, his own gun leveled at the combatant's head. "Get down here, and that Medevac had better be ready!"

Leaping to his feet Gibbs ran over to the one area he hadn't dared to inspect yet, save for the most cursory of checks.

A massive form, face smeared scarlet, draped over Tony's body, forming a human shield.

"Hey!" Gibbs gripped Kraut's shoulder, throat tight. "Let go now."

A low groan was his answer.

Relief, heavy as an anvil to the chest, thudded through him. Not dead. Desperately, he pealed the officer off, lowering him gently the floor.

Then the breath caught in his throat.

A gaping hole in the detective's neck gushed blood like a fountain.

"Officer down," Gibbs managed, strangled by the weight of his dismay. Hands rushed to help him, putting on pressure, but there was no saving from a wound like this.

"To—" the gurgling syllable was almost indistinguishable, but Gibbs leaned forward anyway. Blood bubbled out of his neck with the exertion, even as a flood tears rolled down the round face. "—nee—"

"I've got him," Gibbs promised as fiercely as he knew how, and pulled away, insides aching dully.

At first, he couldn't distinguish any sign of breath. The younger man's face was slack, the once flawless skin a sickening mass of blood and bruises. "Come on, Tony," he heard himself ordering, the pleading tone sounding like a stranger's to his own ears, and touched a hand to the detective's neck.

Heat, alarming in its intensity. And the pounding—fast. Too fast.

But—alive.

_Alive_.

His heart lurched out of control. "DiNozzo's alive," Gibbs barked. A dirt-encrusted blanket draped over the kid's body. The agent ripped it off. They'd need to keep him warm, but he _had_ to check for worse wounds.

The stench of sweat, blood and vomit hit his nose like a wall. Swallowing, Gibbs took in the rust-soaked dress shirt, the fabric shredded to non-existence across DiNozzo's chest. Puckered lacerations, raised and weeping, stood out everywhere against pale, crimson-smeared skin. Shackles—bulky, ice cold to the touch—linked his wrists to the wall.

"Get me bolt cutters," Gibbs thundered.

A burst of cold air from the frantic motion behind raced over them both. Tony shuddered convulsively, a tiny, lost moan making it past his swollen lips. The eyes flickered behind closed lids, then went still.

"I've got you," Gibbs said roughly. "Y'hear me, Tony? I've got you."

The younger man twitched, face wrenching with distress.

Miraculously, bolt cutters pressed into his grip only seconds later, the massive tool comforting in his hold.

A woman, speaking quickly and firmly to the men behind her, fell in beside him, assessing Tony's vitals with the brisk efficiency of someone well accustomed to her job.

Gibbs gripped a link of the chain, and snapped it, as near to the wrist as he could. Without a key, the wide bands around the wrists themselves would have to be sawed off, and they had no time for that now. Gently—_gently_—Gibbs lowered the warm hand to the ground, but not before he noticed the unnatural angle of at least two slender digits.

Rage boiled just under the surface, hot enough to melt iron. He worked mechanically, jaw clenched to the point of pain, mentally cataloguing each wound, each break, as he snapped the second chain.

Adding them to Macaluso's ledger.

But nothing would ever be enough to pay for this.

He stepped away, chest clenching excruciatingly.

Tony mumbled incoherently as hands maneuvered him into the stretcher, beads of sweat trickling down his blackened face.

"Special Agent Gibbs? We'll process the scene." The lead officer from the second group of men—the one who'd sequestered himself behind the table—had come to stand at Gibbs' shoulder.

"A statement." Gibbs clipped out in what was intended to be a question, eyes not diverting from the stretcher's progress.

The detective shook his head. "Thompson. Yours will hold. Detective West is taking Macaluso back to the station. I don't know what game the bastard was playing, but we'll find out later, I guess. You can head to the hospital, get a report."

Gibbs nodded, the tiny movement, oddly, all that he could manage at the moment. The hospital. Of course. He brushed back the hair from his forehead with unsteady fingers.

Cold wetness smeared his face.

The agent lowered his hands, registering for the first time their glossy red coating.

Kraut's blood, thanks to his heroic madness. Blue eyes, lit only with concern for his friend even at death's door, pierced through Gibbs, sparking a surge of sorrow. And some of the blood DiNozzo's, no doubt, DiNozzo, with his broken fingers and fevered trembling—

DiNozzo, still looking shattered and fragile and corpselike in Gibbs's mental eye.

The viciousness of the thought grounded him, snapping his focus back into crystal clarity.

The hospital. To wait for news. To protect Tony as far as he was able. And above all, to make sure Tony didn't think for one moment in that fevered brain of his that he had _permission_ to die.

After all this...

He didn't damn well have the right.

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_Chapter Notes: Well, there y'go! Shorter than normal, but definitely the obvious stopping point. Hope you enjoyed! As always, please let me know what you think! :) Many more things will be explained/addressed in the following chapters. Maybe three, four more to go? Possibly more. I'm not sure!_

_I really wanted Macaluso dead, but...it wouldn't be canonical, so I suppressed the temptation. :P Perhaps I can still contrive to shoot him in the kneecaps._

_Also...I noticed the new picture thing, but decided not to bother—for now, anyway. If people don't think it's their "thing" after reading the prompt, I'm really not sure why a little picture is going to change their minds! _


	18. The Strains of Battle

Chapter Warnings: Mild language (and Medical Ickiness)

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"_Through your eyes the strains of battle like a brooding storm_

_You're up and down these pristine velvet walls like focus never forms..."_

—_Vox_ by Sarah McLachlan

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The sterile, heavy scent of the hospital waiting room wrapped around Gibbs like a cloud. Exhaustion lurked at the corners of his vision, a malevolent darkness waiting to drag him into its depths.

The clock chimed in the distance, nine times. Gibbs rubbed his face, grimacing slightly. He couldn't even remember how long he'd been here, though he knew intellectually it had to be several hours. He'd almost dropped off once or twice, he knew—before jolting to awareness again as adrenaline-laced nightmares took possession.

Not time to face them yet.

Gibbs stood abruptly, the need to move suddenly all-consuming. The brightly lit room, with its polished white tiles and pristine glass doors, seemed from a different world altogether than grungy townhouses, gunshots and guilt. At this early hour it was all but empty of patrons, with only a few drowsy-eyed women flipping tiredly through magazines. The agent was grateful for the quiet, and yet...

A distraction might help ease the panicky frustration of _waiting_.

The hush of lowered voice snapped his attention to the main door. A slim figure, hugging a clipboard, cast a shadow through the glass.

The door creaked open. "Special Agent Gibbs?" A pretty young woman, ginger-haired and wrapped in pale blue scrubs, popped her head around the corner. "Could you come with me, please?"

"Yes, Ma'am." At times like this, it was natural to fall back onto older manners, an older self. Gibbs nodded, followed her into the back. One of the waiting patients looked up, face indifferent, then returned to her magazine.

The door clicked shut. The nurse fixed somber hazel eyes on his.

Gibbs's pulse beat a swift tattoo in his neck. _Not good._

She reached out a delicate hand, rested it on his lower arm. "Sir, I'm very sorry to tell you this, but your Detective passed away in transit. We did everything we could. The damage was just too extensive."

The room tilted oddly, the ordinary hospital suddenly a kaleidoscope of meaningless shapes. "Anthony DiNozzo?"

She blinked, gasped. Aghast. "You're not here for Steve Kraut?"

Gut-wrenching relief, twined with guilt, as the words sank in. The world righted itself.

"Here for both."

"I'm—I'm terribly sorry." She was badly flustered. Redness seeped through her cheeks, clashing with the hue of her neatly braided hair. "No one—no one told me you were waiting for two patients. Wait right here. I'll get you an update."

The nurse rushed off, trailing mumbled apologies in her wake, and leaving gratitude and anxiety fighting for prominence in his mind. Gibbs closed his eyes, sparing a moment's grimness for Kraut and men like him, quick to sacrifice themselves in the name of honor, and quicker to be forgotten.

Tony'd had one friend in Philly, after all.

Bridenn and Keyes flashed across his vision, sparking something violent in his chest. Gibbs buried the feeling under his worry, letting it simmer but not boil.

There would be time enough for that.

"Agent Gibbs?"

The deep baritone sounded from his right. Gibbs turned to face a middle-aged doctor, chocolate skinned and slightly paunchy. The man's dark eyes trailed over the Gibbs' uniform; the badge hooked to the thin belt, the gun at his hip.

"Yeah, I am."

Evidently the terse answer was sufficient confirmation. The man nodded, once, perfunctorily. "I'm Doctor David Kilgore. I've been working in the ICU with Mr. DiNozzo."

Gibbs' heart tried to burst out of his chest.

The doctor hesitated, seeming to search for words.

"Just give it to me straight, Doc." The hoarseness startled even him.

"Of course," Dr. Kilgore murmured. "I'll get right to the point, then. I won't lie to you...the blood loss was severe. The Medevac gave him a small transfusion during transit, however, and we'll give him a larger one shortly. Anthony was also very dehydrated, which we're combating successfully with an IV drip. To be honest, I'm most concerned about the fever. When he reached the hospital, his temperature was hovering at 104, and it may well have been higher before that. He's still in serious condition, but...ifwe can keep the fever down...your detective _should_ make a full physical recovery."

A plunging sensation, like missing several steps at once but catching oneself on a handrail. Heat rushed behind Gibbs's eyes, accompanied by a wordless feeling that felt like prayer.

_Atta boy, DiNozzo._

He wasn't sure if it was praise or a plea.

But they weren't done. "What else?"

A shadow clouded the doctor's face at the clipped request. "There were numerous shallow lacerations. Whoever had your detective, Special Agent Gibbs... they knew what they were doing, which is a curse and a blessing. The wounds are deep enough to be extremely painful, but shallow enough to keep the bleeding to a minimum. There's bruising, but none of it serious. Two mildly fractured ribs. We also set his fingers. They'll hurt like hell for a while, but he got lucky—the breaks were clean."

Gibbs mouthed the word, lips twisting with fury and irony. _Lucky._

DiNozzo seemed destined to redefine the word.

"Need to see him."

The doctor shook his head, sliding his pen out of his pocket. "When he's stabilized, I'll let you know." The refusal was kind, but for one of the first times in his life, Gibbs felt almost reluctant to argue. If DiNozzo was still in the woods, the agent would shoot himself rather than distract the doctors.

Even if the waiting killed _him._

"I do have news for you about Maria Donatti."

Gibbs's fury mingled with a sudden numbness. For the briefest moment, he'd forgotten that a young woman's life also hung in the balance—a young woman who'd worked with DiNozzo for months.

This was all such a goddamned mess.

And where was Bridenn? For that matter, where was Watson? It was their investigation, their screw-up, their informant and _their detective_ teetering on the edge of death—

Dr. Kilgore tucked his clipboard under one arm, wisely interpreting Gibbs's enraged silence as a prompt to continue. "The good news is, her surgeons and doctors have her stabilized. Her vitals are good. I can't impress upon you enough how miraculous that is. Unfortunately...brain activity is at an extremely low level."

Well,_ hell._

"Coma."

A slow nod of confirmation. "She was briefly conscious when EMTs arrived at the scene, which was encouraging at the time, but I'll be straight with you—slipping into a coma at this stage is a very bad sign. Her parents are with her, but—"

"_What?_"

Shock ripped through his tangled thoughts.

"I said her parents—"

"'_Her parents'_," Gibbs echoed savagely, "are connected to the same Mob responsible for shooting her in the head. She has guards—"

Open-mouthed surprise. "But—they were her emergency contacts—"

"Where is she?" The words were a low growl.

"Third floor—the ICU—but Special Agent Gibbs, you _can't_—"

The feeble protest fell into the silence of displaced air.

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"Maria Donatti's room," Gibbs barked, holding his badge out like a psychological battering ram. "NCIS. Where?"

Gaping, the pimply-faced receptionist pointed his finger to the right.

Despite a chest still heaving from taking three flights of stairs at breakneck speed, the agent still managed a scorching glare. "Which. Room."

The young man gulped. "318."

Gibbs didn't spare him another glance.

Down the hallway. _306, 308._ His pace drew slightly displeased stares from a group of older nurses clustered around a clipboard. _310. _Stupid. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Were Donatti's guards brain-dead? If the Mafia wished to ensure that Maria's testimony never came to light...what better way than through the guise of loving parents come to grieve? _312, 314, 316._

_318._

A single guard leaned against the doorway, yawning. Low voices issued from within, murmuring too quietly for him to hear.

Gibbs slowed, hesitating at this seeming picture of calm, but still coiled tight with unease. Nodding coldly at the guard—the name was a blank, but they'd met the day before—the agent marched into the room.

The cloying scent of hospital—antiseptics, surgery, and illness—had been sharp even in the hallway, but here it was suffocating. The slow beep of monitoring machines punctuated every breath. In the corner, the second guard stood, gazing solemnly at the scene before him.

A limp, small figure lay on the white linens, head so heavily bandaged that, with the addition of a respirator, Maria's face was almost completely obscured. Two chairs clustered near the edge of the bed. A women, curly head bowed, clutched Maria' still hand, murmuring thickly. A man, thick hair as silver as Gibbs's own, sat with his face in his hands, as unmoving as a corpse.

Gibbs's boot scuffed against the linoleum floor.

Slowly—achingly slowly—the woman looked up, dulled eyes meeting his.

All of the alarm drained out of Gibbs like water through a sieve. Because he_ knew_ that look, had seen it staring back at him, aching and poignant, from every mirror he owned.

The face of a parent who'd failed.

A hitching sound echoed from the left. The man removed his hands, revealing liquid streaming in sheets down his weathered face. "Who are you?"

The raspy whisper held a world of pain—so plaintive that memory reeled out of Gibbs's control, torment rising in a wave.

_I'm so sorry, Kelly._

If he were a softer man, he might have joined them in their weeping. If he were skilled with words, maybe he'd have known the sounds that would unburden for them all this nightmare of a day.

But he wasn't that man—he was hard, cold, guilt-stricken, silent at the core—and there were no words to banish the hollow desperation of losing a child, save for the shadow of a prayer that theirs might not yet be altogether gone.

"Special Agent Gibbs. Just checking on your daughter's guard. Excuse me." Gently inclining his head, Gibbs exited the room with an abruptness that had the first officer peering after him quizzically as he strolled away.

There were no killers here, no one in need of his defense, no matter how much he wanted the control of being able to protect someone. No threats. Just a shattered family, clinging to their daughter's fragile hands like a lifeline to hope. True—it had been a risk to let them enter, and the guards shouldn't have taken it. Given the way the second officer had studiously avoided his gaze, they knew it, too. But Gibbs couldn't really find it in himself to be angry. Perhaps because there were so many better places in which to vent his ire. Perhaps because the weight of two more people's grief had just settled onto his shoulders, delicate as a shroud.

But perhaps, the agent realized halfway down the second flight of stairs, because it was important to be reminded—agonizingly bittersweet though the reminder might be—that some parents still loved their children above all else, and for all tonight's horrors, the world had not gone completely mad.

Gibbs stopped dead in his tracks, arrested by a thought, hand clutching the rail in an iron grip.

If even Maria Donatti's parents were here, in spite of their questionable past, despite the mob they'd once embraced...

Then where the hell were DiNozzo's?

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The first glimpse was like a sucker punch.

Alive. _Safe_.

Gibbs sank into the chair next to the bed, exhaustion and aching knees finally catching up to him, and stared at the battered form currently draped over the sheets.

He knew without a doubt that there had been other times he'd been this grateful to see the gentle rise and fall of someone's chest, but it was strangely difficult to think of them at the moment.

"Glad to have you back, DiNozzo."

It was barely a breath—and barely an admittance, with no one else in the room to hear the soft truth. Yet somehow the silence seemed receptive, leaving Gibbs unable to shake the uncomfortable feeling that he had been heard.

Scowling, the agent took another swig of pure caffeine from his cup, and sighed in the direction of the unconscious detective

On an average day, Tony looked several years younger than his actual twenty-seven years. Today, however—with the handsome face a panoply of bruises, the typically styled hair soft and thick—he seemed impossibly youthful, like a teen who'd taken a particularly bad fall from his bike.

But he was alive, the fever finally broken, his bones and wounds on the way to healing. Kraut might have died on Gibbs's watch, but Tony was safe and sound.

If, of course, "sound" were interpreted as loosely as humanly possible.

Gibbs grit his teeth, gaze tracing a particularly nasty bruise that colored Tony's lower face, just under his cheekbone. It served to make the younger man's already slender face look strangely gaunt.

The exterior would heal. Dr. Kilgore's face had shone with happiness when he'd finally been able to share truly good news. DiNozzo was young, healthy, active. He'd recover—recover quickly, even.

The unspoken question, of course, was whether there'd be anything left besides flesh and bone.

"How's he doing, Special Agent?"

A plump, cherubic-faced woman peered around the doorway, greying brown hair tucked behind her ears. Her nurse's smock was light blue, accenting twinkly blue eyes.

"Isn't it your job to tell me that?" Gibbs countered dryly, leaning back in his chair.

"Fair enough," the nurse replied, undaunted in the face of the edgy rejoinder. "So I'll ask you the question instead. If those circles under your eyes get any deeper, someone's going to mistake you for the patient. You know," she pointed out kindly, checking something on her chart, "It's very unlikely he'll wake for hours. It could even be days. His body has undergone very severe trauma. Don't you think you should get some rest? I'll take care of your boy."

Gibbs laughed, the sound sharp and clipped. "Not my boy. Not my agent."

"Oh, I see." Plainly, she didn't—her painted on brow lifted slightly, taking in the Special Agent's position at the bedside.

He scowled. "His boss is taking care of urgent business. I'm just covering."

"Ah." Now she looked oddly disappointed.

Curiosity pricked. Gibbs waited, instinct keeping him unresponsive.

The nurse hesitated, clearly on the edge of speech.

_Gotcha._

"You know...we've been trying to contact his father, but the service on has been suspended. I don't suppose you have another number?"

"No." Suspended. Due to a lack of payment? Hadn't DiNozzo been born in the most astronomically wealthy part of Long Island? That was...interesting.

"That's too bad," she murmured unhappily, assessing the red numbers on the monitoring machines. "Well, this all looks encouraging, but Dr. Kilgore will be back in a few minutes to check on Anthony. Until later, Special Agent."

Gibbs nodded absently, in understanding and farewell. _Anthony._ The formality felt strange, like it ought to be attached to a different man altogether. But then—the agent glanced sideways—without the customary quicksilver wit and restless energy, the fragile-looking form hardly seemed like DiNozzo, either.

The agent heaved a sigh, exhaustion tingling through aching limbs. It was time to switch off with a fresh shift of guards. He'd bullied the last ones into letting him take a slot in the first place. Now, though...not that Gibbs cared to admit it, but keeping forward motion on thirty-some hours without sleep was getting harder these days.

He wasn't getting old, though. Just...seasoning.

Smirking wryly, Gibbs stood, joints popping alarmingly.

Like Maria, Tony would have armed guards for the entirety of his stay in the hospital, and probably longer. Witness protection would be on his case at the moment of recovery, if he'd suffer it.

The agent rather suspected otherwise.

Gripping his half-drained coffee cup in a callused hand, Gibbs turned to go. Something inside him tugged, wanting recognition.

Gibbs smiled tightly, giving in to the impulse. The agent moved to stand by the beside, indulging himself one more time with the addictive shock of certainty that DiNozzo was alive and breathing.

The ribs, obscured by the thin hospital blankets, lifted and dropped rhythmically. A trace of reddish-brown—a smear of blood—stained the gauze wrapping both of DiNozzo's shoulders, a chilling reminder of the brutality he'd undergone.

He looked...

So very vulnerable.

A lock of hair lay out of place, falling onto Tony's lids. Following some impulse he didn't understand, Gibbs reached out. Weathered fingers smoothed brow and hair in one hesitant, half-remembered gesture.

The agent froze, hand suspended in air.

Slowly, Gibbs let the limb fall, more disturbed than he cared to admit. Memories flickered; images of himself in a different, softer role.

But that part of his life was over. That fragment of him had died somewhere in an out of control car—in the scent of burning rubber, the sound of shattered glass and the taste of failure.

He had no intention of reawakening it.

Gibbs strode for the door, lips spreading in a flat, humorless grin. Life might have hardened him, but there was an upside to the calcification of the heart. He couldn't undo the travesty that was the entirely of Hawkeye. He couldn't erase the damage of their choices with a snap of his fingers, and he couldn't make DiNozzo whole. But the coldness of anger could be a tool, one he was skilled at wielding. If he could use it to achieve some small measure of justice, in the this whole goddamned disaster...

Then he would mete out judgment with pleasure.

Gibbs swallowed the last gulp of his coffee. Crumpling the container one-handed, he chucked it into a nearby bin. The grin widened.

Time for the second B to come out to play.

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_Tony huddled behind a wooden crate, heart pounding so hard it hurt. The bang of guns and the whine of bullets deafened him, sending throbbing pain through his eardrums._

_ Metal pounded into the wood, spraying splinters. They pierced his hands, his shoulders, his stomach. Only they weren't splinters, Tony realized, with dawning horror—they were _needles_, several feet long, piercing, piercing, stabbing—and he was bleeding out in alleyway, and Macaluso was coming any moment. He gasped for air, blood bubbling in his lungs, and struggled to sit. Tony dragged himself upright, screaming in agony, and looked straight into his mother's empty eyes..._

..._And he wasn't in an alleyway after all, it was just a nightmare, and he was curled up his bunk at school, lonelier than he had been in twelve years of life. He curled in tighter, small knees huddled up to his chin. Useless. Unwanted. A screw-up. A yawning chasm of despair opened up in his chest, threatening to swallow him whole. No, not just unwanted. _

_He was _detested.

_ Someone loomed over him, tall and menacing, but he was too lost in devastation to care. His dad didn't want him. His own father was _ashamed_—_

DiNozzo men weren't supposed to cry.

_ But he wasn't fit to be a DiNozzo, anyway..._

_ Breath hitching, Tony clung to his blankets, but nothing warmed the hollowness. He was cold, so cold. And hated. Hatedhatedhated..._

_ Warm fingers, coarse but gentle, traced the curve of his forehead, stopping the litany of self-loathing dead in its tracks. Tony stopped breathing, drinking in the gesture of affection. Of safety._

_ But wait—it hadn't ended that way at all._

_ The scene vanished in an abrupt, chaotic jumble of images._

A strange beeping permeated the bewildering fog that wrapped around him, pinning his arms and legs like benign shackles. Why couldn't he see anything? Had he been blinded? That would explain why he felt like he'd been stabbed with a dozen hot pokers. But no, his eyes didn't hurt.

Tony struggled, feeling inexplicable urgency. There was something important...something had jarred him from slumber.

In the sterile lights of the hospital room, two green eyes flickered open for the briefest instant, then fell shut.

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Chapter notes: Well, well, look who it is. By some miracle—it's me! Don't die of shock. ;) By the way, thank you all so much for your lovely and gracious reviews and messages. It was a heavy, rather difficult (though rewarding) semester, and the occasional unexpected praise made my day several times.

More of a transitional chapter...but necessary, so I hope you enjoyed anyway! We're getting **really** close to the end here, folks. :)


	19. Rise From the Ashes

**Chapter Warnings:**** Strong Language!**

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to NCIS—more's the pity—and make no profit off of their intellectual property. Figure I should reiterate that, though it should be abundantly obvious to all involved.

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"_And of course I forgive_

_I've seen how you live_

_Like a phoenix you rise from the ashes_

_You pick up the pieces_

_And the ghosts in the attic,_

_They never quite leave..."_

—_Eric's Song _by Vienna Teng

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For all that Gibbs knew that Bridenn had been up for as long he had, and had spent the last few hours hightailing it to join them in Baltimore, the starkness of the man's appearance still startled him.

Near translucent skin, without a hint of natural color. Bags, so deep they gave him the appearance of bruises, hung under watery eyes lit with a sickly gleam. Having laid claim to one of Baltimore PD's conference rooms, Bridenn had transformed the place into a makeshift office. His papers were arranged in perfect order, but Bridenn himself was disheveled, his clothes in disarray; his face worried.

At the sight of Gibbs, though, Bridenn's expression lightened—surprise, threaded with pleasure. "Special Agent Gibbs! I'm glad you stopped by. I've been hoping to speak with you. We'll need your statement later, of course, but—please, won't you sit down?"

Wordlessly, Gibbs did so, his smile thin.

"I want you to know that Macaluso has no chance of wiggling out of his crimes this time. The Baltimore officers found his knife at the house." _Where DiNozzo was being tortured_, hung in the air, unsaid. "He must have been badly flustered, to clean the blade so sloppily. There are traces of DiNozzo's DNA on it, and we think we might be able to get prints off the hilt. Not to mention...sending us to the house?" The chief shook his head in amazement. "I guess he was counting on home court advantage for his men, or that DiNozzo would die in the crossfire and he'd eliminate our key witness. Fortunately, he failed. Also, Macaluso's man Bianchi is dead—he died at the scene—but Ghervio is recovering from knee surgery. Who knows? Baltimore courts don't like cop killers. Maybe he'll squeal. Even if not...there's the witness to Donatti's shooting. We've got Macaluso six ways from Sunday. Our Mafia boss will be spending a _long_ time in prison. And when we're done with it, you're welcome to try to match the blade to your Petty Officer."

The satisfaction was grim and bitter-edged, but Gibbs felt the heat of triumph anyway. The blade would match. He was sure of it. Finally he'd able to bring justice to Johnny Chaplin's family.

"Mostly, though, Special Agent Gibbs...I just wanted to thank you. I can't express how grateful I am—how grateful we all are—for what you did for this case." Bridenn paused, face sobering. "For Tony. If there's anything I can do to help you, anything at all, ever—just let me know. Without your assistance, young DiNozzo might never have made it back at all."

"How about a few minutes of your time?"

Bridenn looked taken aback. "Of course. What can I do for you?"

"Well, good. 'Cause I've got something to say." Gibbs leaned forward, face impassive. "You haven't been down to see DiNozzo, but I have. Wanna know how badly he was injured?"

There, the shadow of foreboding. The man had instinct enough to sense the coming storm. "I...of course."

"DiNozzo was tortured within an inch of his life," Gibbs answered ruthlessly.

Bridenn flinched, face constricting. "I..."

"Always a risk on an op like this. Worst kind. Deep undercover, no backup..." Gibbs s shook his head; picked up a pen from the table. Tapped it against the metal table. "Hard on you. Even if you want it.

"But DiNozzo didn't, did he," the agent said softly.

Bridenn's brow furrowed. "I don't know what you—"

Gibbs ignored him. "Took me five minutes of meeting him to see it. He wears damage like a second shirt. I just didn't know why. But see, then I talked to Steve Kraut."

Bridenn winced visibly at the name, the loss clearly still sharp. Not that anyone but Kraut himself bore the responsibility for that particular loss, for all that he'd done everything in his power to redeem himself for the slip.

"He told me an interesting story. The way I hear it, DiNozzo's last partner died in an undercover operation. According to Kraut, DiNozzo came into Baltimore flatly refusing to do any undercover work. That true?"

Bridenn said nothing, blinking rapidly.

"Yeah, thought so. Then, months later...all of the sudden...poof. Perfect. DiNozzo volunteers for the most dangerous one you've got on the books. Didn't strike you as strange?"

Bridenn's eyes flashed. "What are you trying to say, Special Agent?"

Gibbs curled out of his seat. "Tony and his partner got every suspected Macaluso case for months. He wasn't the lead detective, so he didn't ask for it. Keyes sure as hell didn't want them. You must have inspected the case files. Then Watson delivers him to you, so certain DiNozzo would take the op. Didn't smell a rat?"

Bridenn shifted, his expression increasingly uncomfortable. "Now, hold on—Watson wouldn't—"

"Yeah. You sure about that?" Gibbs cocked an eyebrow, voice low with mockery. "You've worked with him eight years—you know his reputation. Ruthless. Willing to bend a rule, here or there. Ask around. The entire police force knows it. You saying you never saw even a little evidence of it?"

Bridenn swallowed, opening his mouth, only to shut it. Something dark and panicky flashed in his eyes.

The dawning of realization.

"Watson saw that DiNozzo was young, stubborn, and idealistic, and too damn quick to put his own life on the line. He beat him down, case by case, driving a wedge between him and his partner, until he broke. He saw DiNozzo's vulnerabilities, and he used them. Can you say you didn't do the same?"

Bridenn finally found his voice. It carried defensiveness, underscored by something much deeper. The frenzy of alarm. "Tony—Tony volunteered." The spidery fingers twitched convulsively at the edge of the desk. "He knew the risks!"

"Yeah, he did," Gibbs conceded softly, perching on the edge of the desk in a way that tossed the last semblance of respect for Bridenn's authority out the window. "Because he's a good detective and a good man. That choice is DiNozzo's responsibility. Doesn't absolve you."

"I—I don't—I swear I didn't know."

The stilted words carried the dread of a man watching his illusions be stripped away in shreds. A sheen of sweat heightened the already disconcerting pallor.

Pity stirred somewhere in the back of Gibbs's mind. The dismay at Tony's plight was genuine, he knew. Bridenn wasn't without decency. Under different circumstances, the agent might even have liked the older cop. Burnout was a bitch, and he'd seen how it could blur the moral borderlines of once upstanding men. But there could be no leniency on a police chief who had hidden behind such a toxic cobweb of denial—not when the officer's choice had abused the trust of those underneath him. Not when Gibbs could see terrified truth lurking behind grey eyes.

"Yeah. Didn't peg you for an idiot, Chief," Gibbs countered, the soft tone almost kindly. "You've being doing this too damn long for that. You knew Bridenn had pulled something. But Hawkeye was your baby, and you didn't give a damn."

The silence lurked for an eternity.

Gibbs waited.

Then—

"I—I suspected," Bridenn whispered. His hands shook convulsively. "It was just—like a dream. He was a natural. He could do it—I _knew_ it. How could I turn it down? Even if I suspected things...weren't quite right...I thought...I didn't want to look any deeper. I didn't want to know." Bridenn trailed off, reaching out a hand beseechingly. Frantically. His eyes shone with a guilt so strong it hurt to look at. "Please...Tony liked you. How do I make it right?"

Gibbs laughed, the sound as harsh as sandpaper. He shrugged. "You don't. You can't '_make it right_.' You're damned lucky that DiNozzo is stronger than most. A different officer would have cracked weeks ago, and he'd be dead, or your operation blown. A less stubborn man would have died in that basement. But you want to know what you should do?" The agent leaned in menacingly. "You wake up every day, and you remember. You never make the same mistake again. You make sure Watson is in no position to manipulate someone like that again. When DiNozzo wakes up—you give him the honor he deserves. And then you _let him leave_."

"But—"

Gibbs stood, a sardonic smile hovering around his mouth. "Nah. You've lost your chance."

A hurried knock sounded at the door. Without further preamble, the door swung open.

"James, the techs have found a partial print on Macaluso's blade—"

A chubby cop, with rapidly thinning reddish-brown hair, appeared around the door. His eyes, however, were alert. As he registered Gibbs's presence, their light switched from excited to calculating. Cold.

Even if Gibbs hadn't recognized Tom Watson's face from the personnel files he'd perused a lifetime ago when he'd suspected DiNozzo of murder, he'd have felt a surge of distrust.

This one was crafty. Not dirty, but conniving. If Watson worked for NCIS, Gibbs would have kept an eye and a half on him.

As it was...life had delivered the cop right into the palm of the Gibbs's hand.

And Gibbs intended to squash him like a bug.

The agent nodded coolly in his direction, then met Bridenn's gaze in challenge.

The building anger in Bridenn's eyes for the underling who had put him in such a position was answer enough. Even so, the chief gave a tiny nod.

Pleasure welled in Gibbs's chest. There could be no recompense for the sergeant's crimes. But vindication was another matter entirely.

Watson wouldn't know what hit him.

Gibbs took his leave. Raised voices ushered him out, reminiscent of the snarls of circling dogs.

A leisurely smirk spread across the agent's face.

_Squish._

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_Scarlet dripped from Maria's still, battered face. Tony crawled forward, ignoring the piercing pain in his own limbs. Fumbling, he put his own, bloodied fingers against the purpling-red of her slender neck._

_The chill of death seared his fingertips._

"No, no—"

"Mr. DiNozzo, it's alright—it's just a dream—"

_The world swam. Despair mingled with rage. Launching to his feet, Tony spun, coming face to face with Macaluso._

"Maria—"

"Hold him down! He'll rip out his stitches—"

_Out of nowhere, hands closed around his arms, twisting them up behind his back until they flared with agony. Macaluso laughed, running a hand over Tony's face, and down to his neck, until the younger man's skin crawled with the contact. Tony lunged forward, sinking his teeth into Macaluso's outstretched hand, and thrashed against the men holding him—_

"Tony! You're safe. You're safe."

The dream ended in a swirl of chaos. Tony froze, registering bustling movement and urgent beeps. Bright lights seared his eyes. _Where—_

A round, female face entered his field of vision. Blue eyes peered down at him, soft with concern.

"Tony, you're safe—you're in the hospital. Do you understand?"

Tony blinked groggily, panting with confusion. _A hospital._ A hospital.

"It's alright, hun. Everything's alright. Just rest, okay? You're safe."

The detective swallowed, exhaustion tugging at him. He wasn't in the basement. Macaluso wasn't here. A miracle. His eyelids fluttered shut.

Relief pulled him towards sleep, but pain-filled brown eyes and long, dark hair lingered, twining in and out of dreams.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The next time Tony woke, it was like wading through water—slow, drifting, almost pleasant. He opened his eyes blearily, blinking against the dim lights, his head pounding fit to burst.

He was still in the hospital.

"Are you awake?

A square-jawed face, framed with thinning reddish-brown hair. A single, purpling eye.

_Keyes?_

"Aw, man." His voice cracked. Tony grimaced, swallowing. His throat felt like sandpaper. "Now I know I'm dead."

"What? Are you hallucinating?" Keyes asked uncomfortably.

"Nope."

"Then why—"

"Because when I close my eyes..." Tony panted, attempting ineffectually to heave himself into a sitting position, "...and envision hell, it looks exactly like this."

Keyes's eyes narrowed. "How are you feeling?" The words were clipped, as though he'd stopped to bite each syllable off.

Some well-buried part of him felt that he should be more bothered by this entire occurrence, but a sense of unreality pervaded Tony's every thought. His whole body ached—but he was enshrouded in numbness. "I can't feel anything," Tony answered softly, blinking at the ceiling.

"Well, that's good." A creak. Shifting in his seat? "Look, DiNozzo—the nurse told me you'd woken up, and I guess...I just wanted to apologize."

"Apologize," Tony echoed, staring into space. The words drifted in and out of focus lazily; shreds of unreality, trying to cling to significance.

"I know we're not really friends—"

"'Not really friends'," Tony mouthed, smiling humorlessly. In the corner of the room, a moth fluttered delicately, its dull white wings near invisible against the pale walls. "Phrase seems a little inadequate, doesn't it? How's the eye?"

"Shut up. Look, I don't like you, and I wanted you off the operation, but I never wanted you dead."

Slowly, Tony turned his head. "Heartwarming, Locke. Little late for partner bonding, though. What do you want?"

Keyes fidgeted, clearly agitated by the younger man's drifting gaze. "I never thought he'd actually do that, okay?"

Tony's mouth twisted cynically. "Why don't you try using your descriptive, big-boy words."

"I goaded Kraut, alright? I told him crap—stuff about the Chief, and Sergeant Watson—and that's why he called you. But never thought he'd be stupid enough to do that. _Shit. _I didn't even know he had your number."

A flash of panicked memory—that moment of sheer terror as a cellphone rang is Macaluso's car—briefly surfaced. Tony's breath caught, vision warping. Then soothing numbness kicked in, burying the sensation once more.

So, Keyes was indirectly responsible.

"Oh, got it. 'Sorry' makes it all better. Mommy will be proud. Now that you've used all your nice, pretty words, why don't you go and tell Kraut to stop feeling guilty, and get his butt down here."

"No one's told you?"

Tony's heart rate hiked at the uneasy tone. "Told me what?"

Keyes exhaled in a giant gust. "Jesus _Christ_. I can't believe_ I'm_—DiNozzo. Kraut's dead. He got shot trying to rescue you."

The blunt words shattered the surface of Tony's glassy calm. "Dead?" The word came out in a breath. "_Steve?_"

A hesitant pause. "I'm sorry."

A roaring filled Tony's ears. Heat blazed through his body. It hurt to breathe. _Not Steve_.

"Look, he went quickly, if it helps—"

Tony yanked himself into a sitting position, body wailing in agony. He swayed, scrabbling for the railing one-handed. Moisture built in the corners of his eyes. God. Kraut, too.

Too.

_Maria._

"Hey, I don't think you're supposed to be sitting—"

Dizziness, as memories crashed through his veneer of calm. Tony slid sideways, gasping as his ribs bumped the metal railing. Anguish—whether emotional or physical, he no longer had the wherewithal to tell—pulsed deep within him. _Dead. Both of them _dead.

A meaty hand gripped his upper arms, steadying him. _Keyes._ Tony lurched forward, grasping the other man's collar with both fists. "They're both dead," the younger man snarled, sea-green eyes blazing. Agony tore through his fingers, but rage was overwhelming. "Dead because you goaded him—she's lying in the gutter somewhere, tortured and rotting—"

"What are you talking about—get your hands _off_ of me—"

"You want to apologize? Find their _corpses_, Keyes—find their _fucking _corpses—"

"It's time to let go now, Sir—let go now—"

Strange hands were pulling at his wrists. Tony cried out as something bumped his fingers, shaking him out of his fury.

_Macaluso laughed, flattening Tony's palm against the searing cold of the floor. "Such elegant fingers. You have a pianist's hands. Pity such slim fingers...snap...so easily, is it not?"_

An oddly familiar, rough voice. "Out!"

_Painpainpainpainpainpain._ Tony huddled forward, trembling and gasping for air. _"Have I finally quieted that clever tongue? And all it took was a few moments with a knife—why, do you feel dizzy, Tony? Ah, ah. I say when it is time to close those pretty green eyes..."_

Arms wrapped around him, firm but unconstricting.

"C'mon, DiNozzo. Take a deep breath. Snap out of it. It's over. It's over."

But it wasn't.

Lights burst in front of his eyes, twinkling yellow and gray.

_Tap._

A sudden flash of pain on the back of his head. Tony jerked, startled and scared.

But he could breath again, and the basement was fading away.

Tony screwed his eyes shut, feeling warm heat pool at their corners. But it was pointless. Liquid trickled down his face, a silent outpouring of grief.

The arms tightened a fraction. The rough voice gentled. "It's okay, Tony. I've got ya."

Exhaustion crept to engulf him, and sleep swallowed him into its depths.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Raised voices echoed through the hospital hallway, rousing Gibbs from fitful slumber. Adrenaline rushing, he peeled himself from the stiff bench, and clutched his gun.

"—she's lying in the gutter somewhere, tortured and rotting—"

"What are you talking about—Get your hands _off_ of me—"

"You want to apologize? Find their _corpses_, Keyes—find their _fucking _corpses—"

Even with the notes twisted with anger, there was no mistaking that voice.

DiNozzo.

Cursing, Gibbs raced down the hallway.

A feral-eyed Tony gripped his partner's shirt with the unearthly strength of a man drowning. Both guards had him by the wrists, struggling to loosen his grip on the older detective.

Suddenly DiNozzo yelped, releasing his grip. Keyes stumbled backwards, swearing.

Gibbs seared him with a glare. "Out!" Turning, he let the guards share in the barked command.

No one was willing to argue with that look.

The agent rushed to the bedside just as DiNozzo crumpled into a hyperventilating ball. The unfocused eyes left no doubt in Gibbs's mind.

Flashback. And a vicious one.

Sighing, Gibbs placed his arms around the younger man. It was a risk. The non-hostile human contact might ground him—or it might cause him to panic even worse than ever. "C'mon, DiNozzo," he murmured. "Take a deep breath. Snap out of it. It's over. It's over."

But the wild trembling only increased; the breaths only grew shallower.

Damnit—the kid would knock himself out if this didn't stop soon! Desperately, acting purely on instinct, Gibbs smacked DiNozzo on the back of the head, as lightly as he knew how.

Tony flinched violently, then stilled.

Gibbs waited, heart pounding.

The trembling eased. The breathing steadied.

Well, who the hell would've thought. Relief brought a huff of laughter to the agent's lips.

It died as he caught a look at the younger man's face.

His heart turned over at the unguarded tears. Knowing precisely how humiliated DiNozzo would be to be seen like this—how humiliated _he _would be, ever to be caught in such a moment of fragility—Gibbs closed his eyes, delivering the final remaining respect for Tony's pride that he knew how to bestow. But even such concerns couldn't stop him from tightening his grip—and from whispering what he hoped were soothing words—in the hopes of easing such obvious torment.

Moments later, Tony's weight slackened in his hold.

Asleep.

Gently, Gibbs lowered the young man's upper body, only then noticing the older nurse from yesterday, waiting by the doorway. He nodded to her, stepping away from the bed. Eyes sad, she entered the room, and began to check the monitoring machines.

The peal of a cellphone shattered the silence. Hurriedly, Gibbs yanked it open, but Tony didn't stir.

"Gibbs?"

The familiar innocence of the small, high-pitched voice hit him like a hammer—a desperately needed counterpart to the heart-wrenching scene of the last few minutes. Gibbs inhaled, collecting himself before speaking.

"Yeah, Abs."

"When are you coming home?"

Gibbs paused, on the brink of announcing that he might be a few more days.

There was something in her voice.

"What's the matter, Abs?"

"Gibbs." Now he heard it—tremulousness. "Gibbs, my dad just got checked into the hospital. It's...it's not good."

_Damn it._

Gibbs's heart sank somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach.

He couldn't say no. Not to Abby. _Never_ to Abby.

There was no choice. "Hold on, Abs. I'm on my way."

Gibbs flipped his phone closed, ending the call. He stared over at DiNozzo, gaze lingering on the pale face, the bruises. Gently, he shook his head.

If the kid had been damaged before...

Wounds as deep as these would haunt for a lifetime.

Regret pulsed, even as the agent rose. He had to leave. It was time to go home.

Yet Gibbs didn't move.

Who did DiNozzo have, to pull him through this? Most men would break under such a strain, even with a rock solid foundation of family and friends to lift them from the darkness.

But then...

DiNozzo lived to be a conundrum.

Gibbs smiled haltingly, the expression somewhere between bitter and wry. A spark of confidence lit in his gut. He'd underestimated DiNozzo before.

Since when did he make the same mistake twice?

Gibbs paused by the doorway, making up his mind in a fraction of an instant. He snatched a notepad from the nurse's cart, and a pen from his pocket. A moment later, the agent shoved a piece of paper under the nose of the nearest guard. "When Anthony DiNozzo checks out, you make sure he gets this. And when he wakes up next ...you tell him Maria Donatti isn't dead yet. Got that?"

The guard jerked his head respectfully. "Yes, Sir."

"Don't call me 'sir.'"

The Agent strode away, certainty building in his gut with every step.

If the kid had a patron deity, it was the trickster god. A wicked-edged, goddamned-contrary, pain-in-the-ass trickster god, armed with a set of teeth obnoxiously dazzling enough to rival Tony's own.

Gibbs would bet every ounce of bourbon he owned that Tony DiNozzo still had some cards left to play.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Important Announcement #1****:** Okay, you probably all hate my guts right now. Before you get too mad, though—I have an announcement! I am officially committing to a **SEQUEL**. I'm really rather excited about it, so you'll probably get at least the first chapter of that very quickly after the final chapter of A Question of Honor.  So, I know you would all like more Gibbs and Tony interaction, and you may be feeling a little cheated by Gibbs's departure—but it _needed_ to happen, and the sequel is really more like, "A Question of Honor, Part II." It's a continuation of the plotline that I've been planning since the very beginning of this story three years ago. If a Question of Honor is the pupa stage of the story, the sequel is the butterfly. ;) Seriously, you'll get a satisfying (and uplifting) resolution, and copious amounts of Gibbs and Tony interaction. I promise. :) Just trust me! I have laid countless threads of character development. So stick with me. :D

**Important Announcement #2:** There's only one more chapter of AQOH to go. _After_ I post that, and _before _I post the first chapter of the sequel, I'm going to tally every single review I have ever received on AQOH. Then I am going to announce a slew of fun "awards" ("Most Consistent Reviewer", "Review That Influenced the Plot Most" etc.) at the end of the first chapter of the sequel (and subsequently on my profile.) ;) If you want to increase your odds of netting an award...you know what to do!


	20. Blossom Once Again

**Chapter Warnings:** None. Except that it's the final chapter. I feel like _I _needed a warning for that, so I'm going to give you one in case you feel the same way. :P

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"_May the spirit never die_

_Though a troubled heart feels pain_

_When this long winter is over_

_It will blossom once again..."_

—_Breaking the Silence _by Loreena McKennitt

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Thick, fluffy snowflakes twirled past the window, bathing the room in filtered light.

Tony swung long legs over the edge of his hospital bed, grimacing as still-healing ribs registered their protest at the fluid movement. He glance sideways at the crumpled newspaper to his left, his eyes once more tracing the headlines—_Police Sergeant Resigns Under Suspicions of Corruption. Suspected Mafia Boss to Undergo Trial._ After a momentary hesitation, Tony tucked the paper under his arm, ignoring the stiffness of his shoulder.

A pile of his things lay on the side table—his car keys, a brand new cellphone, credit cards, identification, and his badge. It was oddly surreal to see Tony the jock staring back at him from his driver's license—instead of Antonio Florentino, with his slicked back hair and equally oily smile. Moving slowly—even after two weeks, it turned out, broken bones and healing lacerations hurt like hell—Tony slid to his feet, and began to gather his things.

"Well, well. It's that day. Maybe I'll finally get some work down around here again."

Tony looked up; grinned charmingly. It felt as stiff and out of practice as his shoulder muscles, but judging from the older nurse's faint blush, it didn't much matter. "Aw, I'll miss you, too, Janice. Are you sure you can't do household visitations?"

He waggled his eyebrows energetically. Janice rolled her eyes. "Sorry to disappoint, Tony. You really should reconsider working with our therapist, though. Blond, pretty as a picture...seems just like your type."

Tony laughed, determinedly avoiding her searching gaze and the worry it hinted at. "Young and hot, huh? I'll remember that."

She bustled around, dusting needlessly, with rather badly feigned nonchalance. "Is someone picking you up?"

"I've got a ride," Tony answered evasively. He planned on calling a cab, but she didn't need to know that. "I've got a few lady friends nearby, if you catch my drift."

She snorted, placing one hand on her hip with a skeptical air. "You're in no condition for that kind of activity, young man."

"Is that a challenge, Ms. Janice?" Half-truths and evasions, cloaked with charm. Some part of him—a little part, carefully buried behind the dam that kept him upright—felt bad for the deception. But not enough to risk a crack.

Janice laughed, shaking her head. She patted him on the arm, blue eyes crinkling with warmth. "Heaven forbid." A pause. "Take care of yourself, hun."

Tony squashed the urge to flinch at the touch. _Just Janice_. "You know me." His widest grin yet. "I always do."

To his relief, a laugh startled the slightly watery look from her eyes. "Oh, of course." Shaking her head, still laughing, Janice made her exit, stopping only for one final wave.

The smile melted from Tony's face the moment she rounded the corner. He gazed down at his badge with eyes that took in nothing.

"Detective DiNozzo?"

An unfamiliar voice. Tony spun on the spot.

Two unfamiliar police officers, one tall enough to look him in the eye, one a few inches shorter, stood in the doorway.

"That's me," Tony answered warily, fingers dangling uncomfortably at his unarmed hip, muscles tensing involuntarily at their sudden appearance.

The older of the two, equipped with a narrow chin and a kind smile, took a step forward. "Good, I was hoping you'd still be here. Can we have a moment of your time?" The man's thick, greying hair glinted silver in in the florescent lights.

Tony was suddenly reminded of Special Agent Gibbs.

_Don't think about that._

The detective slammed down on the recollection and the humiliating, tangled memories that accompanied it with all the finality of an execution. "Sure."

He sank back onto the hospital bed, forcing his heart rate to settle. The two men moved slowly, projecting their movements as unthreatening so clearly he suspected them of doing it deliberately. Perhaps they'd been warned.

"I hear you're going to be awarded a Commendation of Valor."

"Yeah? How'd you hear that?" Tony asked lightly, unmoving.

The younger man emitted a choking sound, like a strangled laugh. Tony stared at him, lifting an eyebrow in challenge.

"Well, I suppose we should introduce ourselves. This is Officer Cherry. I'm Chief Flanagan. I've been heading the Baltimore branch of the Macaluso investigation since you went missing. It's good to see you recovering."

"It's good to be recovering," Tony said, his bland tone belying the wide smile. "How can I help you, chief?"

"I'm sure you're anxious to get out of here , so I'll get to the point. In the last few weeks, I've had access to the Hawkeye file. Very impressive. Very, very impressive. You're a good detective. From what Chief Bridenn says, though...I get the sense you might be ready for a change of scenery. So, when you're back to one hundred percent...I'd like to offer you a job in our homicide department. It would be an honor to have you on board. Baltimore could use a man like you."

"Homicide." Skepticism colored his tone, overlaying a sudden, unexpected thrill of interest. _Baltimore. _He hadn't considered that."Not undercover work."

"Let's be honest." Flanagan's smile was wry, his deep-set hazel eyes frank. "You're going to be testifying in Macaluso's trial."

A shudder worked its way down Tony's spine, as though ghostly fingers had tapped each nerve.

"The entire process will take months. There isn't even a shadow of a chance you'd be available for anything other than actual police work for a long time. If, after all that is over, you want to consider other venues...we'd be happy to have you. You're exceptional at undercover work, Tony. Very, very good. But—" the smile deepened, highlighting laugh lines—"you're just as good a detective. If that's all you ever want to do, we'd still count it a privilege."

Baltimore. It would be a new challenge. Something to keep him grounded. Focused.

"You don't have to answer yet, of course," Flanagan assured him, rising to his feet. His companion promptly stood. "Think about it—"

A split-second.

"I'll take it."

Flanagan blinked, smile vanishing in the face of his surprise. "Are you positive?"

"One hundred percent." For one brief moment he'd actually felt excitement about the prospect. At the moment...

That was enough.

It would have to be.

A flash of uncertainty flickered across the older man's face. Then, suddenly, Flanagan grinned, displaying teeth stained yellow from long smoking. "A man who knows what he wants. Well, you're not going to catch me arguing with you, Detective DiNozzo." He stretched out a hand. "Shake on it?"

Tony shook. Callused skin, a firm hold. A fresh start, without corruption. Without shadows.

"Keep us apprised on your progress, alright? And if you need anything, you let me know. With Macaluso on a fast track to prison—we're all in your debt."

The sudden tightness in his jaw nearly kept the words captive, but the detective forced the words past his lips. "I'd like one thing."

Flanagan halted, curiosity clear. "What's that?"

"I know you're keeping track of Maria Donatti's medical progress, but I don't have your clearance level. Once I check out, it's going to be hard to get the information. Let me know if anything changes?"

Flanagan's eyes shadowed. "Of course. If the brain activity level changes in any way, you'll be the first to know."

Tony nodded stiffly, holding the other man's sympathetic gaze with great force of will. "Thanks."

The chief inclined his head, in combined acceptance of the thanks and in farewell.

Tony sighed, inhaling deeply. He was already tired, and he hadn't even begun the journey to find a hotel.

It would be a_ very_ long day.

"Detective?"

He looked up.

The other man—Cherry—reappeared at the door jam. He was even younger than Tony had thought at first glance; a narrow-faced, gangly youth in his early twenties, with slightly offset eyes. "I almost forgot. Before we go, I've got something for you. The NCIS agent who helped to rescue you asked me to give this to you when you were discharged."

Tony stared at the folded piece of paper as though it were a viper poised to strike, ripples of shock spreading through him. _What?_ "What's this?"

Cherry chuckled—an odd, squeaky sound. "Well, I wouldn't know, would I? I didn't read it. Hey, I was tempted, I won't pretend I wasn't, but that dude was terrifying. 'Bout bit my head off for calling him 'sir'. Anyway, here." He dropped the note into Tony's reluctant fingers. "Better catch up with the Chief. See you later, amigo."

With a sloppy salute, he trotted off.

Tony's feet carried him to the window. Even this early in the day, the streetlights were lit, turning even the uncharismatic hospital parking lot into a dreamlike realm of falling snow. He stared out into the storm, unseeing. So Gibbs _hadn't _left without even a goodbye.

The paper between his fingers was thin, cheap. Sucking in a breath—his broken fingers still sent jolts of pain through his hand when he was stupid enough to bend them—Tony unfolded the note.

Capital letters, wide and commanding. The first line was written boldly, perfectly straight, as was the signature. But the second line slanted sideways, a little smaller, a little sloppier; as though written on impulse.

The faintest of smiles, microscopic but real—his first genuine smile in days—spread across Tony's face, smoothing a thousand lines of tension. He folded the note, tucking it into his pocket. The detective gazed out into the snow, feeling oddly as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

It was over. It was actually over.

For the first time, he thought he might believe it.

Tony straightened his shoulders, a ghost of a smile still hovering around his lips.

Time to be free.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_Get your head on straight. Do what you need to do. When you're ready, give me a call._

_ You did good._

_Gibbs_

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Final Notes:** Oh, goodness. I actually thought this wasn't going to be bittersweet. How foolish of me!

Almost three years exactly after I started—half a year of high school, and two and a half years of college—_A Question of Honor_ is finished at last. One of the main reasons I started was to give myself a chance to write a story that I didn't feel the need to be hypercritical of. I didn't really expect QOH to stretch my writing skills. It did. I wanted to prove to myself that I could finish a (roughly) novel-length story. I have. It feels so strange, but it feels amazing, too.

Thank you all so much for every review, every message, every alert, every favorite, every view. Special thanks to those of you who reviewed, especially those of you who took the time to write particularly detailed, encouraging, excited, inspiring, and admiring comments. They were amazing. _You _are amazing. You have raised my confidence in my writing more than I can say.

If you're still reading this note, I do have one final request. :D If you haven't taken the time to review yet, or if you've been reading, but you haven't reviewed in a while—give a little shout out so that I know haven't let you down! Honestly, I think the story is going to miss all of us. Let's send it off in style, shall we? ;)

Finally...keep an eye out for the sequel! I've also been pulling together those awards I mentioned, with NCIS themed titles. It's been really funny. :D


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